


In the Hour of Darkness

by rasenna



Series: The Road is Long [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Eventual Relationships, Extremely Slow Burn, F/F, Lance Adopts Cute Alien Kids, Lance Becomes Rebellion Dad, Langst, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Not Season Two Compliant, Original Character Death(s), Other, Overexcited Endnotes, Slavery, Slow Burn, Space Politics, Space is Big and Sad and Scary and Sometimes Cool, Spymaster Lance, Worldbuilding, and i mean extremely, eventual appearances from the rest of team voltron, keep an eye on that Matt Holt tag, not season four compliant, not season three compliant, oodles of nonbinary characters, the blue and red lions are wives okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasenna/pseuds/rasenna
Summary: A mission goes awry, and Lance is taken into slavery. Months later, the world his new master lives on erupts in turmoil, and Lance is forced to flee with a pair of alien children. Hopping from system to system, raising his unexpected charges, Lance somehow finds the time to raise a fledgling rebellion as well.





	1. Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Title from I Will Always Return by Bryan Adams. Spirit: damaging my heart and offering golden fanfic title material since childhood.

Lance loses track of time not long after his capture. Out here, Earthly hours mean nothing; the unforgiving stars outside the window give him no hints as to the passage of time. And aboard the slave ship, time is marked only by the irregular doling out of food. 

There are those who would perhaps say it is out of character for Lance to keep to himself, but Lance knows he was lucky enough for them to catch him in plainclothes. If he had been wearing his armor, the mark of the Blue Paladin, he has no doubt he would be dead. He doesn’t want to test his luck, so he keeps to himself, stays out of the riots over food, lingers in the shadows when they come to pick stronger slaves for the ring. He rubs his arms fervently to stay warm in the chill of the slave hold and hopes that somewhere out there, a castle-ship is tracking him down. 

 

Although Lance has no solid approximation of time, it’s hard to deny its definite passage when he catches a glimpse of his reflection and finds his hair shockingly long, perhaps an inch longer than when he had first been jostled aboard the Galra ship. As he runs his fingers almost disbelievingly through the straggling brown strands, the doubts sink into his stomach. If he’s been here long enough for his hair to begin growing out like that, what chance is there that the rest of Voltron will come for him? Lance summons up a hazy factoid: human hair grows about a half-inch per month. 

The knowledge knocks the breath out of his stomach suddenly, as though he has been punched. Two months. Two months of endless cycles of eating and sleeping and shivering. Two months of waiting for lions to appear and pluck him out of this hell. 

Are they even alive? Is that why they haven’t come for him yet? Lance meets his reflection’s eyes, the blue grim and pained. The only thing he can do is keep living — it’s the best kind of middle finger to the Galra he can offer now, and besides, maybe he can make it out to the other side and rejoin Voltron someday. 

Someday.

For now, Lance huffs a half-dead laugh at the sudden thought of Keith’s own hair and what the other paladin would say now. 

 

As best Lance can tell, it’s something like a week after that when he is selected by a portly green alien with lizardlike frills and more gold jewelry than looks healthy for his spindly arms. The alien and the Galra slavemaster jabber at each other for a few minutes before money is exchanged. 

Along with the others, Lance is taken down a grimy, winding corridor to a chamber with an ominous chair with what are obviously restraints. Lance tries not to let the fear show on his face as another Galra steps out of the shadows, wielding a terrifying contraption tipped by a needle. 

This is it, this is it, he’s dead. Lance scrambles to remember the prayers his mother always told him he ought to utter before his last breath, but all he can think of, for some reason, is the wrenching scream on Keith’s face as Lance had been dragged away. He’ll never get to tease him about his ridiculous hair ever again, never bicker amiably under the pretend rivalry — 

Lance closes his eyes as they strap down the first slave. He’ll never get to tell the infuriating, beautiful boy with the amethyst eyes that he thinks he might be a little in love with him.

The alien starts to scream, high-pitched babble in their native language that drills into Lance’s ears and makes him clench his hands until his nails leave red crescent moons etched into his palms. 

The screaming cuts off abruptly, and Lance steels himself and then opens his eyes. He is fully expecting to see a horribly dead alien, and at first his mind almost rejects the undeniably alive being led away from the chair. Then he sees the harsh black digits marching up the alien’s side. 

Oh. A tattoo. They’re being parceled off to the highest bidder, sentient beings traded like toys. 

It’s not necessarily anything new to Lance, now that he connects the whine of the tattoo gun and the pained noises of his fellow slaves; after all, they’d freed plenty of other Galra slaves with tattoos. Shiro himself had had a tattoo done on Asthyantos not long before Lance’s capture, to cover up his own slave-mark. Lance just never thought he’d have to get up close and personal with the Galra tattoo-masters. 

When it comes to Lance’s turn, he turns his head away, bites into a handful of his ratty tunic, and tries his level best not to scream. It is a near thing, though, as his eyes water and his fingers flex as if seeking a purchase to stave off the pain. Unbidden, an image of his mother swims to the front of his mind, her own tattoo — a pair of doves, for the parents that had died so that she could start a new life. 

The water in his eyes spills over, and he squeezes them shut to prevent more escaping tears. He can feel it in the drumbeat of his heart now: he will never see his family again. The chances had been slim enough when he had been a too-young boy fighting an endless war, but now? Now he is a slave, tattooed and about to be shipped off into the distant reaches of space. 

His thoughts are cut short by the sudden silence of the needle and the halting of the onslaught on his forearm. He blinks the pain away, then hisses through his teeth when a cold, stinging gel oozes over the tender flesh. After a moment, though, the pain recedes, and the rough hands of the slave-master pull him out of the chair and he goes unresistingly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Lance meets the family with whom his fate will become entwined, and the stage is set for the rest of the story.


	2. Unrest

A whirlwind of maybe-hours later, Lance has had his first shower in ages, been dressed in scratchy draping beige cloth, and shuttled to the slave quarters of his new master on a world called Eleriin. 

Along the way, he learns that his new master Ra’atulk is not a Galra himself, only a thrall to the Empire, and that he is lucky in this: the Eleri, the people to whom Ra’atulk belongs, are kinder to their slaves than the Galra themselves. In the slave-quarters of the house of Ra’atulk, Lance receives a brusque once-over by a short blue-skinned, scaled alien who introduces hirself as Amairi, who directs him to the custody of someone named Telpos. 

Amairi, Lance finds out, is the chief slave, responsible for coordinating all the others, and Telpos is the chief house-slave, to whom Lance will be reporting from now on. Too skinny for hard work, too obviously intelligent for lighter drudgery, Lance has been assigned to the direct domestics of Ra’atulk’s house. 

The master of the house himself, Ra’atulk, is a tall, slender Eleri with golden fur-like fuzz and a prehensile tail. His business is shipping, and Lance’s daily job consists mainly of keeping Ra’atulk hydrated and fed as he paces about in what Lance assumes is his office, chattering into the alien equivalent of a phone.

The rest of the time, Lance is expected to keep Ra’atulk’s children, Nyalri and Utyne, and his even slenderer wife Ra’ashari happy in whatever way they need. Although Lance never forgets the tattoo on his forearm and his status is never clearer than when he collapses into his meager straw mattress at the end of the day, he is well aware as the months flip by that it could be far, far worse.

 

Everything changes when things go sour between the Galra and the Eleri. One day, Lance is sitting with Nyalri, the younger of the children, when he sees a smudge of smoke on the horizon out the window. This gives him pause, for in all his time on Eleriin he has never seen such copious smoke from the scrubby plants that pass for trees on this world. But then his question is answered when, much closer, a dull boom makes the ground shake. He doesn’t have to see the new plume of smoke or see the fleeing Eleri to put the pieces together. 

“Shit,” Lance hisses, knowing that although he can and has been punished for Galra Common expletives, he remains safe in English in Nyalri’s hearing. The last thing he wants to do, other than stay in slavery of course, is get caught in the middle of a war while a slave. It’s not like he can escape, since for all his master’s kindness, Lance knows he still wears a near-indestructible tracking cuff with a built-in detonator. If he tries to run too far, he can say goodbye to all those half-squashed hopes of rescue. Permanently.

“Nyalri,” Lance says quietly, switching back to Common, and the child’s head comes up to fix her luminous amber eyes on him. “Do you have a safe place in the house?” 

Nyalri flicks her gaze to the chaos beginning to unfold outside the window, then nods. She turns and lopes, in the strange gait born of inhuman joints, for the door.

Along the way, Lance collects her little sibling and enough toys to keep them busy for a while, and then they hunker down in the admittedly impressive safe room Nyalri shows them to. It is only as the children settle in the corner and Lance turns the massive bolt that he realizes — their parents are still out there. Ra’atulk and Ra’ashari had gone into town that day for the signing of a big new contract, leaving their children in the care of their new human pet-slave. Scratch his earlier thought about getting stuck in a war, the _absolute_ last thing Lance wants to do is get stuck in the middle of a war and have to take care of orphaned children. 

Lance slides down the door — made of some metal, but nothing he recognizes immediately from Earth — resignedly just as another bomb makes the ground shake. Utyne gives a startled whimper, but Nyalri just keeps looking at him with those big eyes. Lance has spent enough time with the children to know that Nyalri is about the equivalent of an earth nine-year-old, and precocious for her age. She’s smart; she knows what’s going on.

_I hate my life_ , Lance thinks as he begins counting seconds, an old habit left from the Galra ship. 

About the time he hits three hundred, Nyalri creeps over, leaving her brother to his toys. “Where did you come from — before?” she asks, tucking her legs under her in a strikingly catlike fashion. Her tail, long and whip-thin, curls around to tuck primly around her feet, completing the image. 

Lance swallows around a dry throat, then tells her, “Earth. The Galra haven’t gotten there yet, and most people don’t even know about life in the bigger universe.” 

“Earth,” Nyalri repeats, sounding out the word as if tasting a new food. “How did you get out here, then?” 

Right then, Lance makes a decision. Nyalri is basically a scared little kid, and they’re probably all about to die anyway. He can go to the grave having told her his secret. 

“Do you know anything about Voltron?” he asks. 

Immediately, her eyes light up. “Yeah!” she enthuses. A pang goes through his chest at how much she sounds like his little sister Anita, sitting at her cool big brother’s feet and listening to another of his yarns. “The Defender of the Universe,” she says reverently. “Mama and Papa say it’s pointless to fight the Galra, but I believe in Voltron!” 

Lance manages to chuckle. “Well, Nyalri, you won’t believe it, but I know the Paladins myself.” 

Nyalri gapes, and this time, when the ground rumbles, she doesn’t pay much attention. “Really? How!” 

“I have a secret,” Lance stage-whispers. “I’m the Blue Paladin. Used to be, anyway.” 

Nyalri looks on the verge of letting out her species’ equivalent of a squeal, but then he can see the moment it clicks and her eyes flicker to the cuff on his ankle. “Oh,” is all she says, and deflates. 

“Yeah, kid, it’s kind of a shitty arrangement, I’m not gonna lie. But, hey, who’s your favorite paladin?” 

Nyalri looks doubtful at Lance’s pitiful transition, but tilts her head gamely. “The Red Paladin,” she says eventually. Lance’s heart tugs again, this time at the mention of Keith, who knows how many light years away, still fighting the good fight. His attention returns to Nyalri, though, when she continues, “They say the Galra took the love of his life and that’s why he fights like a _hyrwissat_ — a demon. He’ll never stop until he sets the Emperor’s heart on fire!” 

Lance can’t help but laugh at the seriousness on Nyalri’s face. “I know Keith is the Guardian of Fire, but he can’t _actually_ set things on fire,” he tells her. “And I don’t know where you got the thing about the love of his life, I doubt he could see someone who loved him even if he was right in front of his face.” 

“But it’s true!” Nyalri insists. “The stories say that he dedicates every victory to his dead love, a great warrior in his own right!” 

Lance raises an eyebrow. “And does this great warrior have a name?” If Keith somehow found a hot alien boy in the months since he got captured, he’ll be grudgingly impressed. 

Nyalri nods. “We don’t have the sound in our language, but I can try.” A look of utmost determination on her face, she says haltingly, “La…Lanta, Lantsha? Lansha.” 

A strange feeling grips Lance’s chest. Throughout his time as a slave, he’s answered to Alejo, his old childhood name, to avoid being recognized as _Lance, the Blue Paladin_. After months of not hearing it, it is strange to hear it mangled by an earnest alien child sharing gossip about his former teammate. What’s more, the particular gossip she’s sharing is…earth-shattering. World-shattering?

“You mean Lance?” he says, and his heart thuds strangely when the annoyance fades from her eyes and she claps eagerly. “Yes, that’s it! Lansha, the Blue —” She freezes, recognition dawning. “…Alejo?” she says cautiously.

Lance feels tired all of a sudden. “That’s me,” he says. 

“Did you — did you love the Red Paladin too?” 

He sighs. “I — we never got to talk about it. I didn’t think he loved me back, and there were bigger things to worry about anyway.” Lance lets his head loll back against the door with a thunk. _God, my life_. Of course he finds out his crush is requited…from the daughter of his owner, on a planet probably ten galaxies over from Keith, who thinks he’s dead. 

Nyalri’s species don’t do tears, but her nose is wiggling conspicuously in the Eleri equivalent of watery eyes. “Aw, Nyalri, I’m sorry,” Lance says. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. Here, I can tell you about the other paladins—”

“No!” Nyalri’s sudden outburst shocks Lance into silence. “You have to find him someday and tell him how you feel! The Book of Valleys says that a love shared but not acted upon is a burden upon the universe,” she tells him seriously, poking him with every word. 

“Sheesh, I understand, you don’t have to quote your alien Bible at me, I just don’t think I’ll see him again.” 

Nyalri squints at him, clearly not understanding the “alien Bible” bit, but sighs eventually, shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry, Alejo,” she finally says. “Can I hug you?” The Eleri also don’t normally hug, but enough time spent with Lance has rubbed off on Nyalri, and she’ll occasionally hug him out of her parents’ eyesight. 

Lance nods, opening his arms, and she curls right up under his chin. She’s warm, but not too heavy, about the size of a human five-year-old. Her tail flicks against his stomach, reminding Lance of his fat old tabby back home. 

It isn’t long before Nyalri’s breathing evens out and Lance finds his own exhaustion catching up with him. Like the little alien girl on his chest, he finds himself succumbing to sleep. Down, down, down he goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Lance makes a promise to Nyalri and Utyne's parents, the Galra punish the rebellious Eleri, and the story moves off of Eleriin.


	3. Departure

Lance shocks awake from a dream of reaching out desperately to a boy in red and white armor. Once he gets his breathing under control, he glances down to see that Nyalri is still sleeping, breaths whistling into his tunic. In the corner, Utyne has curled up in a mass of blankets as well. Lance listens for several heartbeats, but the silence is unbroken by bombs. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Nyalri.” She mumbles and pushes her nose further into the space under his chin, but doesn’t rouse. It’s actually extremely cute, and Lance is tempted to let her sleep, but they have bigger things to worry about. This time, she blinks blearily up at him when he shakes her shoulder lightly, and they separate. 

She rubs her eyes as he gets up and stretches. “Nyalri,” he murmurs, “I’m going to go out and see what’s happening and if I can reach your parents, okay?” 

Nyalri nods sleepily up at him, and he feels his heart twist again at the sheer _trust_ she puts in him.

When he’s done stretching and feeling slightly more alive, he pads across the room to check on the younger Eleri. They’re soundly asleep, but now that Lance is closer, he can see that their face has screwed up in pain. Utyne is about the equivalent of a five year old, and they’ve always been a little more skittish than their older sister. Poor kid must be having a nightmare. After all, they’re separated from their parents in the middle of a war — pretty scary stuff for a little kid. 

Lance doesn’t want to leave Utyne, as miserable as they look, but he really should investigate the outside world. (That is, if there _is_ an outside world for him to investigate.) He settles for bending to place a comforting palm on Utyne’s shoulder for a few heartbeats before quietly leaving the safe room.

 

Outside the safe room, it’s quiet — but not the peaceful morning silence Lance associates with the predawn hours of the Eleriin countryside. Rather, as he picks his way through corridors dim with lack of power and smoky with fallen plaster, the silence chills him to the bone. It’s the silence of dead men, the silence of the morning after a failed revolt. 

When he gets to Ra’atulk’s office, the neatly organized datapads have fallen in chaotic heaps from the shelves, but the ceiling light shines steadily, so Lance should be able to access Ra’atulk’s computer. He does so easily, having seen his master type his password hundreds of times, and the Eleriin Internet-equivalent immediately fills the screen.

With a few more clicks, Lance is able to piece together the story behind the explosions that had rocked the house the previous night. Eleriin supplies the Galra Empire with a fair amount of its grain, and up till now the Eleri-Galra relationship has been fairly quiet, if not entirely affectionate. But last night, the slow-burning Eleri dissatisfaction with the Galra had come to a head — rather emphatically. If the major Eleri news sources are to be believed, the Galra have been sufficiently driven off of Eleriin by a series of rebel attacks on their garrisons and administrative centers. 

It’s a nice story — breadbasket world with peaceful beings is enslaved by ruthless intergalactic empire, successfully rebels and kicks said empire off their planet. Lance would like to believe it, but he knows the Galra won’t be defeated that easily. Like the Romans, they detest rebellion, and when they strike back, it’s with extreme prejudice. 

It’s just as Lance is thinking grimly about Carthage that a signal beeps from the comm device on Ra’atulk’s desk, behind him. He spins wildly in his seat, sending electronic shipping manifests flying, and grabs for it just as Ra’atulk’s holographic image flickers into miniature existence. 

The tall Eleri seems surprised to see Lance for a heartbeat, but worry quickly replaces surprise. He cries, “Alejo, Alejo, where are the children?” He is more frantic than Lance has ever seen him, spindly fingers fumbling anxiously with the carved wooden amulet at his neck.

“They’re safe,” Lance replies, and Ra’atulk sags in momentary relief. But before Lance gets the chance to say anything else, Ra’atulk leans in close to the camera.

“Alejo, listen to me. You have to get _out_ , get the children offplanet. The Galra are spitting mad; Admiral Jakort has ordered a planet-destroyer out here.”

Lance shudders in spite of himself. He’d loved Star Wars as a child, but the great planet-killing machines of Earth imagination were nothing compared to the real thing. For one, the real thing involved traumatized survivors and sudden changes to planetary gravitics and a hundred other things science fiction glossed over. For another, that kind of sheer destructive power was one of the most terrifying things Lance had seen out here in space, and he’d seen a lot. 

If the sector admiral has ordered the destruction of Eleriin, the planet, and Lance, have maybe another four hours left to live — if the planet-destroyer was deployed precisely that long ago from the nearest military installation. And that’s not even getting into the fact Lance still has a tracker-cuff that will kill him if he leaves Ra’atulk’s property.

Lance takes a deep breath, ignoring the now-familiar rabbit-kick of his heart in the face of impending death, and manages to say, “And how can I do that? I’m not exactly free to leave in the first place.” 

Ra’atulk blinks at him for a moment, and then understanding clears his eyes. “As soon as I heard the news, I freed everyone. Just because our world is going to burn doesn’t mean those we’ve chained down should burn with us.” 

Lance brings an ankle up to peer at it; sure enough, the normally blinking green light on the cuff has gone dark, and when Lance gingerly slips his fingers under its rim, nothing happens. He must have been sleeping when the cuff went off; otherwise, he would have felt its tiny needles retracting from his skin.

Ra’atulk watches grimly as Lance makes quick work of loosening and removing the cuff, and then tells him, “There’s no way we can escape, they’ve shut down the city. But you can take one of the yachts in the west hangar, and we’ve managed to create an account for you with all the money we can access. Please, _please_ , take care of our children.”

“I—I can’t—” Lance stammers, but Ra’atulk raises a quelling hand.

In an almost reverential hush, the Eleri says, “Teach them, Alejo. Teach them the openness of valleys and the crispness of fresh, free water. Teach them to raise their heads proudly and spit at tyrants, teach them to have courage and be kind. They are the lessons we cannot teach them, that we didn’t have the courage to teach until too late, so it falls to you. Do not let Eleriin die without her last children growing strong first.”

Lance swallows past a suddenly clogged throat. He’s never thought himself particularly fond of Ra’atulk, but he can’t deny the effect of the Eleri’s last request on him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he promises hoarsely. 

Ra’atulk continues, “I don’t expect you to remember me or Ra’ashari fondly to my children, but if you could, please tell them we love them very much and—and—we will see them again someday, when the Lady of Valleys comes to unknit the stars.” 

Lance nods slowly, and Ra’atulk leans back from the camera, satisfied weariness written in his posture. “Goodbye, Alejo. May the stars bless you on your journey,” he says, and before Lance can say anything else, the hologram disappears. 

Lance sits for a moment, his heart thudding dully in his chest, before heaving to his feet. 

He may no longer be a slave, but he’s never felt less free in his life.

 

When Lance steps back into the safe room, he knows Nyalri can instantly read some of the tumultuous emotions on his face by the dimming enthusiasm in her eyes. 

Utyne is awake now, and Lance shuts his eyes heavily against their questioning amber gaze, and Nyalri’s slowly despairing one, for a heartbeat before speaking. 

“I’m so, so sorry. I have to get you offworld now, or we all die — the Galra are coming to destroy Eleriin.” Somehow, that chain of simple words doesn’t properly sum up the sheer horror of all the things Lance feels and knows about the impending doom of Eleriin. 

There is a frozen moment, and then Nyalri and Utyne crumple into each other like wet paper in the rain, clutching each other for support. Lance instantly feels something rusty-edged twist in his chest; he’s seen the Galra ruin so many lives and create so many orphans, but rarely has he personally had to give this sort of news. That pleasant task had fallen primarily to Shiro, as Voltron’s designated respectable and sympathetic authority figure.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can repeat in a whisper as he crouches to embrace his new charges. Nyalri buries her face in his shoulder, and he can feel Utyne trembling into his chest. He just holds them like that for a few minutes. 

When they finally separate, Nyalri looks miserable, but her little shoulders have the strength of Eleriin metalwood in them, and Utyne is still giving little shuddering whimpers, but their fingers are firmly entwined with their sister’s. 

“What do we do now, Alejo?” Nyalri asks hoarsely, but with resolve under the grief in her eyes. 

Lance gives her a wobbling smile. “You’re a brave kid, you know that? 

Your dad set up an account for us and said we could take one of the yachts. I know a world not too far from here where we can crash and regroup…and then, I don’t know what happens after that.” He might be a nineteen-year-old whose job is protecting the universe, but he doesn’t know anything about parenting. Still, by God, he’ll keep his promise to Ra’atulk. 

 

After a brief walk around the house that rings with a strange finality, and a flurry of packing, Lance ushers Nyalri and Utyne aboard the family yacht-craft, the _Woodsend_ , that will take them away from Eleriin. 

_Woodsend_ is not a durable craft meant for the kind of speeds and acrobatics that Lance would prefer, but it’s serviceable enough. It certainly ought to get them to the relatively close water-world of Nomos, which has been friendly enough to Voltron and its allies in the past.

As Lance starts the engine, he realizes suddenly how much he’d missed the purring rumble of a starship engine and the feel of a yoke in his hands. All that’s missing is the comforting background awareness of Blue in his head, and the mental flicks of his team — 

He won’t think about that now, he decides as they lift off. 

Nyalri and Utyne crane their necks from their seats to watch Eleriin spiral away, its rolling hills and copses of shrub-trees becoming little more than model-landscape under them. Aside from the engine, there is silence aboard the _Woodsend_. It’s only when they properly break atmosphere, the planet hanging deceptively peaceful under them, that Nyalri begins murmuring in the sacred, private language of the Eleri — prayers meant for the graveside, for a final farewell. 

Lance pulls back on the yoke to settle into orbit and allow her this, and then when she finally falls silent again after a few moments, he eases them into hyperspeed and Eleriin is suddenly replaced by the blue-white streaks of interstellar travel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Lance and his new charges find themselves trapped on the besieged world of Nomos, Lance remembers a better time, and the rebellion makes contact.


	4. Nomos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... writing this chapter got spectacularly out of hand, so I've split the previously-planned Nomos chapter into a few pieces. I know I promised more action, but I hope you'll accept this fluffier interlude instead.
> 
> Also, I apologize for the overlong end notes; suffice it to say I have an academic's love of footnoting.

When Lance drops the _Woodsend_ out of hyperspace over Nomos, he can’t help but think about the last time he had visited the water-world. 

He’d just celebrated his birthday, and perhaps the occasion for celebration was what had driven Allura to give them a lighter mission than usual. The paladins were to mingle with the Nomoi queens, take some PR pictures, and sign a treaty — easy, compared to their usual fare of last-minute rescues and ugly diplomatic entanglements. And for once, nothing had gone wrong, much to Allura’s relief. 

On their last night on Kyppos, the Nomoi capital island, Lance had slipped out of the paladins’ quarters down to the beach. Little Brother, as the smaller of the two Nomoi moons was called, was just rising, its silvery reflection rippling on the water; Older Sister was high in the sky, casting a benevolent lilac glow across the slopes of Mount Kyppos. 

Lance had pushed his way through the Kyppin jungle at a sedate lope. When he had gotten to the beach, its ordinarily white sand lit soft lavender by Older Sister, he had been unable to contain his whoop of joy. Tearing his shoes off and flinging them behind him as he bounded across the warm dunes, he had been able to close his eyes for a handful of heartbeats and pretend that he was home, with his house a stone’s throw from the water. 

In the fantasy, his mother was humming an old Spanish love song as she did dishes and his father was muttering thoughtfully to himself as he did the newspaper crossword at the kitchen table. Somewhere else in the house, his sisters were shrieking with laughter, and the family cat was sprawled sleepily in the windowsill, tail twitching lazily. 

But then he had opened his eyes, and the illusion of a warm Earth summer’s night was banished by the two moons in the sky and the unfamiliar calls of Nomoi nocturnal animals in the jungle behind him. All at once, the joy had seeped out of him, and he’d slowed to a halt, digging his toes into the sand as if to ground him. The waves lapped invitingly at the sand a few yards away, but the sudden rush of homesickness rooted him where he stood, and instead he let out a sigh and tipped his head to look at the stars. 

They twinkled back impassively, almost mocking him with their unfamiliar configurations. He’d stood on the beach back home so many times, mapping the stars and dreaming about touching them — and here he was, among the stars, yearning for home. 

Lance’s thoughts were interrupted by a rustle from the jungle behind him, and he turned just in time to see Keith emerge from the treeline. 

The red paladin was clad in a loose Nomoi sleep tunic and pants, which contrasted incongruously with his own boots — he’d clearly put his shoes on in a hurry, and Lance couldn’t help but smile a little at the image as Keith drew closer, pulling his boots off as he went.

“What are you doing?” Keith asked when he’d finally caught up with Lance. Now that Keith was closer, Lance could see that his hair was an utter mess, and that there was a slight pillow crease in his cheek — Lance must have woken him slipping out of the double they’d been sharing.

Lance shrugged. “Had to see the beach before we left, you know? I grew up someplace like this, and it reminded me of home.” 

Keith’s eyes softened, and Lance was suddenly struck by the slant of moonslight across his cheekbones. He’d known before that Keith was pretty — he’d have to be blind not to know that — but just now, something about the combination of the interplay of shadows and the sympathy in his violet eyes made his heart beat just a little faster. 

“I’ve never been to the beach,” Keith said suddenly, and Lance was almost grateful for a reason to stop thinking so much about why his chest had turned into a mess of emotions. 

“Really? Not even a crappy lake beach?” 

Keith shook his head. “Most of my foster families lived in landlocked states, and there were never any nearby lakes, so…” He shrugged. 

Lance didn’t know what possessed him in that moment to impulsively grab Keith’s wrist and pull him along. “Come on!” 

Keith let himself be dragged along with surprisingly little resistance, and the second his toes touched the surf, his face melted into into startled pleasure and a soft “oh.” It lit up his face in a way Lance rarely got to see, and suddenly it felt like his heart was a trapped bird in the cage of his ribs.

Before Lance could say anything, like accidentally let slip how he felt, Keith discovered the joys of splashing, feet kicking up droplets of water. He was _laughing_ , bright and carefree, and Lance was going to die. This was it — forget the Galra, forget the war, he was going to die thanks to Keith Kogane’s laugh. 

Lance realized that his fingers were still wrapped around Keith’s wrist, and he was about to yank his hand away when Keith tripped and Lance found himself quite suddenly with an armful of Keith. 

There was silence for a moment or two, as Keith stared wide-eyed up at him and Lance tried not to think about how much he enjoyed the warmth against his chest and the feel of his fingers flat against Keith’s shoulderblades. 

He cleared his throat abruptly, pasting a grin on his face, and said, “I’m _cradling you in my arms_!” 

Just like that, the moment broke, and they were both collapsing into laughter as Keith said, “I can’t believe you keep bringing that up when you _don’t even remember it_!” 

Things had devolved from there into a water fight until a truce, hoarse with laughter, was established. Eventually, they’d traipsed up from the beach dripping and flushed with merriment, but Lance never quite forgot how he had had felt when Keith looked up at him like that, the stars in his eyes. 

 

He is pulled out of his reminiscing by the sound of Nyalri coming up behind him to breathe, “Is that Nomos?” He turns to look at her; although she looks far too exhausted for her age, burgeoning excitement gleams in her amber eyes. It’s a familiar, contradictory tangle of emotions to Lance: still tender from a shattering loss, but looking into a new and bright future. (They’ve lost worlds — too many worlds — in this neverending war, but they have to pick themselves back up, smile, and find new joys in the heavens.) 

He nods, and her footsteps patter quickly away as she goes to rouse Utyne with the glee of someone who’s never been offworld. Lance allows a small smile to curl at his lips as the siblings chatter excitedly and he maneuvers the _Woodsend_ towards the atmosphere.

Nomos is perhaps a little larger than Earth, with vast expanses of jade-green seawater and several archipelagos scattered across its surface like some cosmic child’s toys. The largest archipelago, led by the capital island, is a study in contrasts, the purple Nomoi jungle and white smudges of beach stark against the deep green water. 

This is where they are headed; Lance hopes that they can catch a breath thanks to Kyppos’ famed no-questions-asked hospitality before requesting an audience with the Nomoi queens. If all goes well, the queens can get them in contact with Voltron. (Lance doesn’t know how, exactly, the team will manage to fit raising a pair of alien children into saving the universe, but he has faith in them.)

 

Things start going less smoothly than planned almost right away, unfortunately. It turns out that Eleri are extremely allergic to anthocyanin, which is the chemical that makes Nomoi plants so vividly purple, and Lance has to navigate the bustling Nomoi streets with a pair of wildly sneezing and coughing children. It isn’t really doing wonders for his plan to stay unnoticed until the three of them have the queens’ protection, as passing beings slant dirtier and dirtier looks his way. He’s given up on the signature _what can you do_ shrug by now, focusing on dividing his attention between moving as quickly as possible and comforting an increasingly miserable Nyalri and Utyne. 

After an ambling Spiericol takes grave offense at a particularly loud sneeze from Utyne — apparently, on Spieri, sneezing is a dire insult — Lance gives up. Apologizing profusely over his shoulder, he leads Nyalri and Utyne to the nearest open restaurant-inn, a little place with peeling blue paint and a flickering Galra Common sign that reads, “The Loralian Kettle.” 

When Lance steps inside, he immediately realizes he’d been mistaken. This isn’t a restaurant, it’s a bar. He curses the Galra language, which doesn’t differentiate well between the disparate concepts of _bar_ and _restaurant_ , as he turns to usher Nyalri and Utyne away. 

However, he’s stopped by two things: one, Nyalri and Utyne’s sneezing and coughing has died down to weak sniffles now that they’re indoors; and two, a small, six-fingered turquoise hand on his elbow. 

He looks down, and down, and down — to find a little humanoid alien with, frankly, Cthulhu-like facial tentacles and four arms standing there eagerly. They barely reach his knee and are wearing what can only be called an apron, grease-stained and well-worn, over a skintight iridescent jumpsuit. 

Lance opens his mouth to politely dismiss the little Loralian, but they beat him to it. “Hello!” they chirp, voice squeaky and underlaid by clicks and pops. “Welcome to the Loralian Kettle Pub, where you’ll find the warmest hospitality in District 6!” 

When Lance fails to respond with appropriate enthusiasm, they makes a sort of desperate bubbling noise and add, “We’re also _Agazt-_ rated for the finest Loralian ale in three star systems!” Lance follows their eagerly flung pointing finger to see the little framed sign on the wall next to the exotic assortment of glowing bottled liquids that makes up the bar. 

Lance doesn’t know what _Agazt_ is, or what Loralian ale is, but as much as something resembling beer sounds good, he’s…sort of an adoptive parent now? Certainly he’s never been known to be terribly responsible, but he’s determined to do as well as he can by the children currently clinging to him and watching the — waiter? — with anxious eyes. 

It’s just as the crestfallen Loralian seems to give up that another of their species, this one a slightly deeper blue with lighter splotches, hurries over. They hastily tuck a cloth into the pocket of their apron and address the first Loralian, “Axaris! Can’t you see they don’t care about _Agazt_ ratings or our Loralian ale — even if it is great, you really should try it sometime — poor things look exhausted; what they need is some hot soup and a good night’s sleep.” 

Their voice is a little deeper than Axaris’, but with the same click-pops. As they take a surprisingly firm hold of Lance’s wrist and lead him further into the bar, they add, “I’m sorry about my spouse, they get a little excited sometimes. What are your names?” 

Bemused, Lance manages as he suddenly finds himself sitting in an admittedly comfortable booth, “Uh—Alejo, and this is Nyalri and Utyne.” 

The Loralian’s tentacles curl and shade into a darker blue, which Lance interprets by the crinkling of their golden, starburst-pupiled eyes as a smile-equivalent. “You have admirable offspring, _blukkek_ Alejo _._ Oh— I’m Tybbas, and I’ll be back faster than a pulsar-turn with some menus!” They dart off with surprising speed, and Lance is left trying to figure out what _blukkek_ means. It’s one of those untranslatable words that befuddles his translation implant every now and then; the closest he can come is “pleasant-person-who-is-being-served-food.” (Even in his confusion, he can spare a moment to think fondly of how much Pidge would appreciate the gender-neutral honorific.)

Nyalri and Utyne seem just as bemused by the turn of events, but they’re willing enough to play along — as soon as Tybbas leaves, Utyne reaches for a cup of what look like skewers and promptly challenges their sister to a miniature fencing match.

Lance shakes his head fondly as he turns to survey the rest of the pub; children never change, even this far across the universe from his own skewer-dueling little siblings.

The little pub isn’t what Lance would call _busy_ , but it’s also not exactly deserted. About half of the tables are full, and the hum of conversation is a comforting background hubbub. By the bar, there’s a holoscreen showing some kind of sport wherein a gaggle of Loralians, bearing aloft nets, run around on a strangely-painted field after a round little animal with four membranous wings. Every now and then, the crowd onscreen roars faintly, and the aliens sitting at the bar let out a ragged cheer in response.

It takes _slightly_ longer than a pulsar-turn for Tybbas to return, but they return soon enough clutching a set of transparent panes, slightly harried-looking. They puff, “Here’s your menus, all. Sorry about the wait, Sumfin _nearly set something on fire!_ ” They raise their voice pointedly at this last, sending a dark look towards the kitchen. By the unperturbed reactions of the other patrons and the affably shouted reply of “ _Pthien_ you, Tybbas!” from the kitchen, Lance guesses this is business as usual.

It takes some help from Tybbas, apparently back to their cheery demeanor now that they’ve shouted, but Lance and the children eventually order. By the time they dig in, the light pouring in from the windows has turned rosy with sunset, and Lance finds himself devouring his soup with a speed that would earn him a reprimand from his mother back home. 

The soup is a vivid, spicy yellow stew with chunks of Loralian _lindau_ fish and some kind of crispy, salty leaf. It reminds Lance a little of Earth curries, even if the flavors are subtly different, and he resolves to get a recipe for Hunk when he sees him again.

 

Tybbas refuses to let them get up until they’re all drowsy with the weight of a full meal in their bellies, and when Lance reaches for his pocket to pay, they shake their head vehemently. “No, we can tell you need to keep your money for a long road ahead. And you need a place to stay the sleep-cycle, yes?” 

He glances at Utyne, who is snoring lightly against their sister, and Nyalri, who is slightly more alert but occasionally blinking sleepily. “Yes, please — if you have space,” he says eventually. This will be better than needing to brave the Nomoi streets again — especially after dark. 

Tybbas’ tentacles curl amiably, and they gesture for Lance to follow as they head for the stairs in the back corner. Lance carefully scoops Utyne up onto his hip, the little Eleri’s nose finding its way into his shoulder, as he rises. It’s a move that brings memories of his parents doing the same for his younger siblings, and the image is reinforced when he feels the warm fur of Nyalri’s fingers slip into his other hand. 

But somehow, as they carefully mount the stairs in a peaceful little procession, the memory doesn’t bring as much a twist of agony as it once did. If anything, the bitter sting of missing his family is assuaged by something new — the warmth of Utyne’s arms looped around his neck and Nyalri’s hand in his. He may be unthinkably far from his birth family and from the ragtag family he’d carved out in Voltron, but here he’s found another one. 

Tybbas leads them along the upper corridor until they reach a doorway with a plaque labeled, _A. & T. Rheiska. _Lance guesses this must be Axaris’ and Tybbas’ apartment, and his guess is quickly confirmed when the door suddenly slides open and a pair of — incredibly — even smaller Loralians spill out. 

The taller of the two is a soft lilac, and immediately begins chattering at Tybbas, something related to school from what Lance can glean. 

The smaller Loralian, the same shade of turquoise as Axaris, immediately stares up at Lance and cuts through their sibling’s chatter with a strident, “Zaza, what’s going on?” 

The taller Loralian child immediately silences, noting Lance and his sleepy charges, and Tybbas smile-curls before gently pushing their children back into the apartment. “Loves, I know you’re excited, but please — give them space to blink. This is Alejo and his offspring Nyalri and Utyne, and they’ll be staying with us.” 

“Where are you from?” chirps the taller child as Lance and the Eleri follow Tybbas into the apartment.

Lance pauses to shift Utyne — however did his parents put up with this as long and as often as they did? — before replying, “Someplace with a sad lack of beaches.” 

Tybbas seems genuinely friendly and trustworthy so far, but he doesn’t want to reveal their flight from Eleriin or his own origins just yet. The answer seems to satisfy the child — if not Nyalri, as she gives him a mild dirty look for badmouthing her homeworld.

“How are you so _tall?_ ” pipes up the other child, and Lance nearly snorts.

“I’m sure their homeworld had less gravity than Loral,” Tybbas interjects smoothly. “But that’s probably enough questions for the night. Kaelos, would you please go and get Nami’s old room ready? I think setting four on the bed parameters should work. And Iesa, have you done your beak cleaning for the night yet?” 

The taller child, who must be Kaelos, immediately dashes off down the hallway, leaving Iesa to make an unhappy sort of burble. “No, Zaza,” they say reluctantly, tentacles drooping in clear resignation. 

“Well, little moon mine, you should get on that, yes?” Tybbas gives them a little prod with one of their lower arms, and Iesa makes an affirmative-sounding click before turning to follow Kaelos down the hall, albeit at a much slower pace. 

It’s all somewhat surreal to Lance — in all honesty, most of his alien encounters before being sold to Ra’atulk had had to do with being shot at or forced to smile for PR, and even the house of Ra’atulk had not had the easy domesticity of the Rheiska family. It brings another echo of his own Earth family, but one look at the Loralians’ tentacles dispels the image. 

“Is there anything else I can get you before you retire for the sleep-cycle?” Tybbas asks, moving to what is clearly the kitchen and busying themself with the sliding cupboards. 

Lance shakes his head just as Kaelos reappears. “All ready!” they say eagerly. A note of doubt enters their tone, however, as they add, “But I didn’t know what humidity to put the room on, since they’re not part-sea-dwellers like us, so I just left it on standard land-dweller mode.” Lance nods, having dealt with this on other worlds, and Tybbas smile-curls and gestures for Kaelos to lead them along.

They pass an open doorway that looks like a sleek bathroom, with Iesa squinting at something under their tentacles — Lance tries not to look too closely; as much as he’s already grown to like the Rheiskas, cephalopods admittedly freak him out a little. 

Eventually, Kaelos stops before a slightly ajar door with soft lavender light pouring from the crack. It slides open silently, and the four of them step in. There’s a bed that somehow looks large enough for a tall human — Lance briefly thanks God for whoever invented adjustable beds out here — and the soft glow comes from a lightly pulsing rock on the bedside table. The walls of the room are covered in posters for alien bands Lance doesn’t know, and a desk with a lamp and chair is tucked away in the corner. 

Lance turns to thank Kaelos, but the little Loralian is already gone. Sighing, Lance crosses to the bed and gently deposits Utyne. The Eleri child doesn’t even stir as Lance gingerly pulls their shoes off and tucks them in. Nyalri follows suit, almost asleep even before her head hits the mattress. 

He takes a moment to smile at them curled together, all the trauma of the day smoothed from their faces, and sits on the bed to take his shoes off and drape the coat he’d stolen from Eleriin over the end of the bed. He scrubs his face in his hands briefly and sighs: There’s still so many steps between him and reuniting with Voltron, but he supposes it can wait for morning. 

On that note, he crosses to the other side of the bed and burrows into the blankets, careful not to disturb Nyalri or Utyne. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he figures out how to turn the purple light off, and like Nyalri, he’s asleep before he even hits the mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts and tidbits, because I'm a nerd who can't resist stuffing every sentence with overly-researched throwaway details and references:
> 
> 1\. Anthocyanin is the chemical that, when in greater abundance than chlorophyll in plants, causes them to turn purple (as in, for example, Thai basil).  
> 2\. I love playing with alien linguistics; expect that to be a recurring thread in this fic. The Galra word for both "bar" and "restaurant" translates roughly to "eating-and-drinking-place-where-less-people-get-killed." (Yikes.) It's a little more clear in spoken Galra Common, but in written form there's an almost bolded emphasis placed on "drinking" if it's a bar and "eating" if it's a restaurant. This is unhelpful enough as is, but in the gas-discharge tube signage (think neon signs) out front of the Loralian Kettle, glowing gases don't convey the emphasis as well. (Plus, Lance is less familiar with this nuance anyway, having not exactly gone bar-hopping while a slave.)  
> 3\. Agazt is a shameless anagram of Zagat. Now you know the Loralian Kettle is approved by intergalactic foodies.  
> 4\. The game Lance notices is Loralian flapperball, which I can best describe as a cross between Earth lacrosse, early forms of Quidditch (in case you didn't know, the Snitch was once a little bird) and bug-catching. I feel a little bad for the flapper, honestly.  
> 5\. Pulsars are basically space lighthouses, if space lighthouses were rapidly spinning neutron stars spewing electromagnetic radiation. The fastest spinning pulsar known, PSR J1748-2446ad, rotates 716 times per second. Alien expressions are really fun to create!  
> 6\. Sumfin, kitchen trash fire disaster extraordinaire, is a nod to my friend FableButt; it's a throwaway reference, but now I find myself wondering how Sumfin would find herself working in a pub kitchen on Nomos in the first place.  
> 7\. Jaxor soup is essentially a really bright yellow version of my favorite Earth curry, a Malaysian one with cobia, eggplant, and crispy basil.  
> 8\. The lindau fish in the jaxor soup is a reference to my favorite ninth-century European illustrated manuscript, the Lindau Gospels. (Why, yes, I am a massive art history nerd.) I highly suggest you look up the cover of the Gospels, as it's a masterpiece of gold- and jewel-work.  
> 9\. "Zaza" is a gender-neutral term for a parent, in the vein of "Mama" or "Papa." What gender binary? Space rejects your puny human notions of gender.  
> 10\. I was thinking, half-jokingly, about how places like hotels would accommodate a wide variety of body shapes and sizes, and then it hit me: super technologically advanced adjustable beds! That's how the three-foot-tall Loralians are able to accommodate the considerably taller Lance and co. 
> 
> Feel free to come chatter at me about any of this! I just realized I haven't put my tumblr up for y'all, so here it is: princesscochlea. 
> 
> Unless the next chapter gets out of hand as well: Lance seeks an audience with the queens, only to get into a heap of trouble; and the Rheiskas turn out to be more than the simple, friendly pub owners they seem.


	5. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws hands defeatedly in the air*
> 
> Like everything else about this fic, this chapter got out of control, so I'm just posting the first ~3k words and scurrying away. Also, I'm sorry for the wait; I caught a nasty cold and school things happened. Real life, please go away so I can finish all of my fanfics. 
> 
> Come chatter at me on tumblr: princesscochlea! (I still haven't figured out how to format my notes with links, honestly.)

When Lance stumbles into wakefulness the next morning, he nearly shuts his eyes reflexively and sinks back into sleep, but before he can return to the embrace of dreams, a prolonged ululation splits the air. He jackknifes upright, all drowsiness fleeing at the eerie sound, and is out of bed and reaching for his stolen coat before Nyalri and Utyne can even finish grumbling at the disruption. 

Half-clad in the too-small coat — made for spindlier Eleri body proportions, after all — Lance’s feet nearly slip on the cool metal floor as he bolts for the door. When he reaches the hallway, there’s immediately a small commotion from the kitchen area of the apartment. 

“Whatever is the matter, Alejo?” Tybbas asks, standing from the little table with a steaming cup in one hand and tentacles curling slowly in clear wariness. Lance pants, attempting to gather his breath and his thoughts from his half-awake dash; the noise still ripples through the air, sinking into his bones. Now that he’s a little more conscious, he thinks it sounds a little like the whalesong sample he’d once heard on an aquarium fieldtrip in fifth grade: lonely, creaking like old wood, with the thrumming of something ponderous and incomprehensible underneath. It’s not nearly as terrifying as he’d first thought, shrouded in sleep and the displacement of an unfamiliar room.

“Uh — what is that?” Lance asks, and then immediately clears the sleep-fog out of his voice. He must look a mess to Tybbas, with his slept-in old slave clothes, ill-fitting Eleri coat, and rumpled hair.

Tybbas stares at him for a heartbeat, seemingly confused, but as the sound reaches a new pitch that sends a shiver down his spine, recognition clears their golden eyes. “Ah — I’m sorry, you must not have spent time in this part of the city before. That’s a Ras Alharan day-greeting. There’s a large Ras Alharan population in this district, and every day at dawn and sunset, the local gathering-hall choir sings to the sun — they’re solar worshipers, you understand. It’s really quite beautiful, but it can be surprising the first time you hear it. Would you like some tea?” Tybbas beckons him to follow them into the kitchen, hands already busy with what is obviously some sort of teakettle. 

Now that he knows what the day-greeting is, he thinks he can hear the harmonies of the Ras Alharan voices, and though he can’t understand the words — the Altean translators never made it out to Alharan ten thousand years ago — the simple joy thrumming through the song is clear.

Lance may have moments when the homesickness winds like crushing chains around his heart, days when he wishes he’d never leaped into the sky, but it’s other times like this that he can’t help but let the sheer awe of space warm his bones. Space, despite trying to kill him every other day, is admittedly full of incredible things — new worlds, new people, new religions. 

Even though Tybbas has already begun fiddling with the teakettle, it’s clear they’re waiting for a reply, and Lance suddenly realizes his lack of such reply. “Oh— sorry,” he says hurriedly, snapping out of his thoughts, “yes, unless it’s got intarsia leaves in it.” The paladins had learned, very quickly, to keep a close eye on their foods — space was incredible, yes, but full of allergies for the unwary traveler. And intarsia leaves were quite poisonous to humans — they’d found that out the hard way after Pidge had had to be rushed to the hospital following a Yaxan tea ceremony.

“No worries,” Tybbas says, pouring, “intarsia is a hallucinogen for Loralians; not exactly the sort of thing to keep around offspring.” Lance’s eyebrows jump as he accepts the proffered cup and gratefully wraps his fingers around its warmth. It smells somewhat like cinnamon and vanilla, but the peppery alien tang underneath jars the impression of familiarity. 

“What are your plans for the day, if you don’t mind my asking?” Tybbas asks eventually, after Lance has taken a few sips of his tea and the Ras Alharan day-greeting has died away. 

Lance peers at them over the rim of his cup for a moment, and then decides that at the very least he’s going to need directions to the Queens’ Citadel.

“I need to meet with the queens,” he says. “I have to get offworld as soon as I can, and they’re are the only ones that can get me in contact with my friends — my team.” 

One of Tybbas’ foremost tentacles comes to rub consideringly under their eyes, and he can feel their returning assessing stare as he glances down into his swirling blue tea. 

“The queens don’t receive visitors without months of notice, especially not escaped slaves — I noticed your tattoo — with no district IDs. I don’t know how familiar you are with Nomos, but this isn’t the easygoing place it used to be. There’s rumors that the Galra are planning an invasion, and the city is tense. I honestly doubt you’ll make it to the Upper Kyppos gate without drawing attention, let alone to the Citadel.”

“I’m fairly certain the queens would receive me. It’s just a question of how to get to the Citadel,” Lance replies coolly, provoking an even more considering stare from Tybbas. 

“You must be important offworld,” Tybbas hums. “Or at least you think you are.” Lance feels mildly ridiculous, pinned by a three-foot-tall being’s skeptical glance, but there he is. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Lance repeats. “Do you know how I can get to the Citadel? You run a bar, I’m sure you know—”

“Certainly, I know a great deal of gossip, and I tend to hear tremors before they become quakes, but you’re asking me to directly break Nomoi law and smuggle you through the districts. Convince me why I should do that when I could lose my license, lose my apartment, my tidy little life.” Long gone is the cheerfully squeaking, friendly Loralian of last night; Tybbas speaks with the seriousness of long experience. 

Lance wets his lips, thinks. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he notes that if he makes it out of this, it could be valuable for Voltron to have a friend like Tybbas with their ear to the ground.

“Tybbas,” he says slowly, “I don’t know how truthful those rumors are, but think about how much more you could lose if the Galra invade. Not just everything you’ve already mentioned, but Nomos — the city, the Ras Alharans singing their songs, your kids. I’ve seen what the Galra do to worlds, especially ones as stubbornly resistant as Nomos, and if you help me, I can get you out before it gets bad. When I say it’s important to get to the queens, I mean it. I—” he swallows again, the secret weighing on his tongue. 

“I’m going to trust you with this. Before I was a slave, before the Galra took me from my team, I was the Blue Paladin, I was part of Voltron. If I can’t get to the queens, I can’t get a message through to Voltron, and if I can’t get a message to them I can’t find them. And— I don’t think I have to finish that chain of logic, do I?” 

Tybbas is silent, looking at him shrewdly; the moments it takes them to reply feel like an eternity. “You make a very valid point, Blue Paladin,” they say at long last. “Nomos is a strong world, but the queens are growing tired, and those invasion rumors are becoming more and more insistent with every day. So I see that your journey is ours, for however long you are on Nomos. Wait here; I have some calls to make, and then I will help you.”

Lance breathes out an incredible sigh of relief as Tybbas disappears down the hall, leaving him to drink his cooling tea and calm his hammering heart. He desperately hopes he hasn’t made the wrong decision, trusting the little Loralian with his identity. They could just as easily call the Galra down on him as contact their friends to help him; Nomos would certainly be Zarkon’s before the end of the day if the Empire was motivated enough to come after the long-lost Blue Paladin. 

He is down to the dregs of his tea, the leaves swirling in strange designs, when they finally return. They’ve exchanged the loose, comfortable robe they’d worn earlier for a no-nonsense matte black jumpsuit, and they have a baggy, dark gray jacket slung over one arm. As they approach, they immediately launch into a surprisingly authoritative tone for such a tiny, squeaky alien: “I’ve called my eldest offspring Nami to come take over my duties at the Kettle, and they’ll take good care of your own offspring while we’re away. Come on, our first order of business is finding you something more inconspicuous to wear.” 

They barely pause for him to set down his cup and thank them breathlessly before striding out the door. 

 

 

Tybbas leads him several blocks down the street to a shop tucked shyly into the side alley of a run-down building. As he and Tybbas enter, the rattling metal door-jangle setting Lance’s teeth on edge, he can feel eyes on him from the shadows of the alley. 

The Loralian speaks in a quick flurry of gestures with the shopkeeper. Before Lance really has a chance to process anything the shopkeeper, a tall, nigh-translucent, moth-winged Agrest with unsettlingly rectangular pupils, is shoving a pile of goods into his arms. Tybbas pushes him through the haphazard aisles of the shop to what is evidently a changing room, and once inside he barely hesitates before shedding his own clothes. It feels good to get the grimy slave tunic and pants off, and besides, something about this place crawls across Lance’s skin; he’d like to be out of here as soon as possible. 

First comes the jumpsuit, similar to Tybbas’ but in a dark navy blue — the irony of the color scheme curls at his lips as he examines the jumpsuit’s surprisingly roomy pockets. It looks like leather, but doesn’t drag hotly across his bare skin the way leather would, instead fitting light but snug like spun fiber. 

Next comes a pair of boots in a similar material, black with reinforced toes; Lance does a couple of laps around the little room and finds them fitting to his satisfaction before moving on to the jacket. 

It’s a steely gray-blue, more obviously fibrous than the jumpsuit, with positively massive pockets and some sort of fluffy fur in the hood. When Lance investigates the interior pockets, he finds that it’s been pre-equipped with a dazzling array of supplies — what is evidently a little first aid kit; a comms device; even something that looks an awful lot like one of Pidge’s high-tech lock-picks; and much more. Lance instantly decides that he’s fallen in love with the jacket. He and this jacket are going _far_ , and then when he gets back to Voltron he can show Pidge all the secret compartments and their ultra-prepared contents. 

Picking up the jacket reveals the final item in Lance’s ensemble, a utility belt with a pair of empty holsters. They’re clearly for guns about the size of Earth pistols, and Lance may be a long-range sharpshooter at heart, but he’s almost looking forward to getting his hands on new weaponry. It’s been too long — two months on the prison ship, and then maybe nine or ten months on Eleriin — that he’s been utterly defenseless. Plus, he jokes to himself as he exits the changing room with his old clothes in hand, the twin-holster look totally screams _space cowboy_. 

Tybbas and the Agrest are waiting impatiently for him when he emerges, and the Agrest silently takes his old clothes as Tybbas leads him to a glass-encased counter on the other side of the shop. There’s another Agrest behind the display, and Lance tries to ignore the burn of the Agrest’s hawklike gaze against his skull as he bends his head to peer at the guns Tybbas is examining with an obviously-practiced eye.

Not for the first time, he wonders how, exactly, this is his life: examining alien guns, while on the run after escaping slavery, with a tiny bar-owner-slash-emerging-badass.

It isn’t long before Tybbas nods decisively to themself and points to a pair of gleaming silver guns with glowing white lines along the barrel. They’re sleek little things, and when Lance tests the grips they fit as if made for his hands. Ever-silent, the Agrest slides an accompanying pair of crystals across the counter. One is clear, one red, and Tybbas translates the Agrest’s gesturing to tell Lance that the clear crystal is the default laser-gun gem, and the red is a combustive gem — which is to say, he ought to be careful with his aim

Lance succeeds in keeping the grin off of his face until Tybbas has paid and they’re back on the streets, and then he allows some of the enthusiasm he remembers from first receiving his bayard to leak through. 

Of course, Tybbas glances up at him, sighs sharply, and says, “Stop smiling, Alejo. Someone’s going to notice, and then you’ll have to try those guns out sooner than you want to.” 

 

Their next stop, after an interminable walk that leaves Lance tired and hungry, is a pretty little café; the air above the street is hung with brightly colored, draping fabric, and the café itself seems to be a popular spot for the midday meal. 

Lance and Tybbas pass several tables of couples, evidently on dates, before Tybbas, seemingly arbitrarily, suddenly sits down at a vacant table. Lance, more hesitantly, sits across from them as they adjust the height of their chair. Tybbas doesn’t say anything, but their expectantly patient air tells Lance they’re waiting for someone.

Lance tries not to fidget while he waits, but eventually boredom gets the better of him, and he ends up observing the pair of Alternian girls at the next table. One of them has forked horns that shade from rust at the base to sunflower at the tips and graceful, faintly violet-tinted ear-fins; the other has horns that are broken just where they would usually turn from rust into tangerine — Lance winces sympathetically — and white face paint. Lance plays with the zipper of his new jacket as he watches the latter laugh and flush indigo under the paint at something her — girlfriend? — said. 

It’s just as Lance is about to demand an answer from Tybbas that a waiter, a slender, sharply-dressed Atheri with poison-green scaly skin and spiky turquoise eyebrow ridges, appears silently at their table. Lance swallows his abortive shriek as Tybbas looks up and curls a smile at the Atheri. 

“Hyssyth!” they greet warmly, and the Atheri grins, a flash of far more delicately pointed teeth than Lance thinks is strictly necessary. 

“Got your call.” Hyssyth flicks appraising slit-pupiled, dark blue eyes to Lance. “I had to make some pointed threats, but Timmos came through in the end; little rat has no spine. Is this the customer you mentioned?” 

Tybbas nods; then, turning to Lance, they say, “Alejo, this is Hyssyth; she’s your best shot at getting into the Upper City.” 

The Atheri winks — _winks_ — at him before suddenly whisking a pair of menus out from under one arm with an ivory-taloned hand. Lance barely has time to process the glowing ID card tucked in between the sheaves of his hidebound menu before Hyssyth is rattling off the daily specials in the faintly bored voice of waiters everywhere. 

After Hyssyth has bustled off with Lance and Tybbas’ drink orders, Lance leans in to hiss at Tybbas, “So what’s the plan?”

Tybbas gives him a mildly acidic look over their menu. “Well, first we try not to look like we’re up to something.” 

Sheepish, he leans back and forces himself to appear more relaxed before trying again: “What’s next?”

“Better. The ID will get you through the Lower City district gates, but Upper and Lower City IDs are only handed out to the more favored members of Court. Lucky for you, Hyssyth has more than a few paramours in the Upper City, and any one of them would trip over themselves to do her a favor. Now, I can’t go with you to the Upper City, since I have an old Lower City orphanage tracking implant, but Hyssyth should get off shift by the time we finish lunch and she can take you from here.” 

 

Lunch is admittedly delicious — Mandoran jungle-flyer kebabs with a veritable rainbow of tomato-like _essidi_ fruits — but Lance can hardly focus. He can almost feel Blue’s yoke under his fingers again — just a few more hours, and he could be back with his girl, with his team. 

Tybbas lets him have his jittery, silent excitement; their eyes track his drumming fingers and distant gaze with sympathy. Towards the end of the meal, they finally draw Lance’s attention from the abstract mural on the wall by saying gently, “Alejo, I know you’re excited to be back with your team — your family — but I do want to caution you that this won’t be easy. Even if Hyssyth can successfully get you to the very gates of the Citadel, you’ll still have to break in to see the queens, and Hyssyth hasn’t let me in on that part of the plan. If things go downhill, here’s the information for one of our higher-ups. Zhi can get you and your offspring underground faster than the royal guards can blink.” They hand over a little card with a handwritten name, “Melforan,” and what looks like a phone number. 

“‘Our’?” 

Tybbas fixes him with a heavy gaze. “Hyssyth and I know each other because we went to university together, but that’s not why I’d trust her with my life, and yours. She and I have a…side job, let’s say, working for the Resistance here on Nomos. She runs information on Court, and I keep my ear to the ground in the Kettle.”

Lance revises his earlier thought from Tybbas’ kitchen: if he can get Voltron hooked up with the Resistance, Tybbas will be much more than a _valuable_ ally. They’ll be priceless. 

He doesn’t quite know what to say, but he manages, “Thank you, Tybbas. I trusted you with my secret, but you—this is bigger—”

They wave an airy hand. “I trust you, Blue Paladin,” they murmur, just low enough for only him to hear. “For what it’s worth, you may be terrible at covert operations now, but I think we could use your help in the future. If you ever want to get in touch with us, you know where to find me.” 

Lance swallows past the sudden lump in his throat just as Hyssyth reappears, tuxedo-like jacket draped over one arm to reveal a deep blue, high-collared button-up. Tybbas rises and swaps money with her, the two of them murmuring back and forth for a few moments, before she turns expectantly to the still-seated Lance. He gets up and rolls his shoulders in anticipation before leaning in to shake Tybbas’ hand firmly. Even though he knows he’ll likely see them again — after all, they have to return Nyalri and Utyne to him — it feels a little like a goodbye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I am a nerd who should not be trusted not to jam pack my chapters with terrible inside jokes and references. (You may have already gotten this from the Great Footnotening on the last chapter.) 
> 
> 1\. Ras Alharan comes from Ras Alhague, which is the brightest star in the constellation Ophiuchus.  
> 2\. Being a religion major means having a lot of emotions about religion all the time, even in fanfiction.  
> 3\. Intarsia is a knitter's curse. Yes, I know Lance knits, and might remember it, but honestly I couldn't remember it at first myself and was like @coyacoonadillo, "what's that knitting thing that sounds like a heart condition?"  
> 4\. The moth-winged Agrest alien is a flagrant Miraculous Ladybug reference; lay me to rest now.  
> 5\. The clothes and gun shopping trip is meant to evoke my favorite Homestuck fanfic, The Vienna Game.  
> 6\. The Alternian couple is my friends' Oats and Bones' terribly in love fantrolls Sigama and Lohlah. I THOUGHT I WAS FREE.


	6. Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. I'm so sorry I took so long; life happened. Enjoy Hyssyth and Lance's adventures, and the (for real) final part of the Nomos arc should be up tomorrow; I'm just too tired to nitpick the second half's formatting right now. 
> 
> Tumblr, as always, is princesscochlea.

Hyssyth leads Lance around back of the cafe to where a hoverbike, all gleaming dark alloys and sleek lines, waits. Matter-of-factly, Hyssyth stows her suit jacket in a rear compartment and leans against the bike to shrug on a sleeker, leathery replacement in a dark green. She hands over a helmet to Lance before fitting one over her own spine-crested head. 

“Ready, Alejo?” she says as she swings a leg over the bike. 

He grins under the helmet.

 

They speed down endless side-roads, free of the pedestrians of Kyppos’ mainway, and before he knows it, Hyssyth is slowing as they turn down an alley. They dismount, and she tethers the bike to a lamppost and stows their helmets before leading Lance back to the main thoroughfare. The road continues another couple of blocks before the interruption that is the Upper City wall, a monolith of blue and gold stone pierced by the gate. 

The gate to the Upper City is a massive archway that dwarfs the line of people underneath, with a shimmering, blue-tinted forcefield that bars the way to pedestrians. As Lance watches, the guard glances over a centipede-like Rirhait’s ID before turning to a control panel and pressing a button that reels back the forcefield like a bubble blown in reverse. 

The line moves slowly enough that the afternoon sun dips low in the sky by the time Lance and Hyssyth make it to the guard station.

 

Lance forces his fingers to stay relaxed in his pockets as the guard, a mustard-and-burgundy striped young Ranai with nictating membranes and a sheen of slime across his skin, examines Hyssyth’s ID. Lance lets his gaze meander across what he can see of the Upper City through the blue tint of the gate before Hyssyth suddenly prods him subtly with a talon. Resisting the urge to let out an offended noise, Lance duly shuffles forward to extend his own ID. 

The Ranai seems much less taken with Lance than he had with Hyssyth, but Lance finds he’s quite alright with that as the Ranai’s fingers smear faint trails across the little card. Lance nearly, nearly holds his breath, but a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tybbas forces him to keep his breathing even. 

After some of the most agonizingly slow moments of Lance’s life — with the months on the Galra ship for competition — the Ranai holds the ID out to Lance with a nod. Hyssyth’s hand curls around Lance’s shoulder in pleased support as he feels his own relief shoot through every nerve ending.

But as Lance reaches out to accept the ID, his sleeve falls back, and the fingers on Lance’s shoulder go tight with the horror Lance feels. Lance is unable to avoid the panicked direction of his eyes, and the Ranai’s own eyes flicker, almost in slow motion, to the stark black lines of Galra Common on Lance’s forearm.

“What is that?” Lance hears the guard say, as if from a great distance, or underwater. Fear has clogged his throat, and he finds that he can’t dredge up a reply, let alone a reasonable one. Hyssyth’s fingers have gone viselike on his shoulder, and somewhere in the back of his brain he wonders if her talons have punctured his coat yet. The force of her grip certainly hurts, in a distant sort of way.

But the guard’s next words release the tension, as he says, “I don’t know much Galra Common — what is that? Does it say anything cool?” 

Lance almost wants to laugh hysterically, or perhaps fall to his knees and thank the universe for giving him a break, just this once. 

Breathless with relief, Lance shrugs and says, “Eh, you know, I’m not actually sure — it was an aesthetic decision.”

The guard chuckles as he waves them on. “Something like ‘flower’ or ‘blue,’ but it looks deep?” 

“Something like that.”

The walk through the Upper City is surrounded by far less chaos than the Lower City; here, the hubbub of markets and carts rattling on the stones and children laughing is replaced by high-end stores and the quiet hum of hovercars and tasteful conversations at outdoor cafés. It is, Lance decides, too quiet. 

Hyssyth leads him down a purple-shaded boulevard and steps up to the doorway of what looks like an opulent alien townhome. She knocks firmly before stepping back to inspect her talons with an air of practiced boredom, and Lance notices the camera above the door almost too late before there’s the sound of scrambling and shouting from the other side of the door. 

Scarce moments pass before the door is opened by a six-armed, lavender-skinned Fasetiol man with a frankly ridiculous quiff of bright orange hair and white freckle-spots. His pupilless red eyes fix on Hyssyth with so much delight Lance finds himself mildly concerned for the Fasetiol’s blood pressure. “ _Hyssyth_ , darling!” he booms. “You should have told me you were coming; I would have canceled my shoot today!” Lance, peering over the tall alien’s shimmery peach-gowned shoulder, can see what looks like a thoroughly exasperated Pandebulan photographer and crew of varying species. 

Hyssyth sighs, seemingly terribly put-upon, and extends a wrist for the Fasetiol to kiss her hand. Lance snickers in the back of his head at the length the Fasetiol has to bend. “Pahashal,” she says, voice just short of a purr, “You know I love surprising you.” 

“Yes, yes,” Pahashal enthuses, rising and waving a heavily-ringed, six-fingered hand. “Now, what can I do for my favorite lady?”

“Oh, not much,” Hyssyth sighs airily, “I just need to get my friend here to the Citadel as soon as possible. He’s a renowned scholar from Myhastal, and he simply _must_ present his thesis to the queens before the sun sets, or he’ll be ceremonially executed.” 

Pahashal’s eyes widen in horror, and before Lance can protest the conjured threat to his life Pahashal is calling, “U’ulia, send for my hovercarriage _at once_! There’s a man’s life at risk!” 

 

Despite his seeming horror over the urgency of their situation, Pahashal takes what must be another half hour to let them leave, despite Hyssyth’s repeated refusal of sweets and clothing and a thousand other gifts. But finally, Lance and Hyssyth are on their way, silent but for the hum of Pahashal’s admittedly luxurious, self-piloted hovercarriage. Lance watches the Upper City flash by through the tinted window, and Hyssyth brings out a small phone-like device and spends much of the ride engrossed in it, talons clicking quietly against the screen. 

Eventually, Lance breaks the silence with a question, dropped into the still air like a pebble into a pond, “Tybbas said you spy on the Nomoi nobility for the resistance. The last time I was here, Nomos was pretty thoroughly anti-Galra, and certainly nobody asked so many questions. What’s happened in the last months?” 

Hyssyth blinks thoughtfully at him for a moment before sighing and turning to look out the window. “Since the Blue Paladin died, the resistance…has not been doing well. Voltron was a rallying cry, the first glimmer of real hope we’d seen in ten thousand years — and when the Galra took him, suddenly we could no longer stand behind that rallying cry. It unsettled a lot of the resistance’s financial supporters; we couldn’t promise them the cushy Galra-free lives we’d promised in exchanged for their money.” Her tone goes bitter-bright, scraping across Lance’s ears like a rusty blade. “Suns-damned hypocrites, all of them. So now we’re fighting a war with the purple-eared bastards out there in the sky, and with our own people. The queens haven’t been able to keep their court in line as the decay just keeps eating away at our money and our support. And it got so much worse a few months ago when Queen Aredel got sick; Queen Lyxe and Queen Immori have been half-out of their minds with worry about their wife, and it’s allowed the more ardently Imperialists in the court to get more powerful. What you see — the zoning, the security, most likely the invasion — is thanks to men like the Markiz of Tyrka. Spineless, gutless Galra-lovers with no loyalty but to their pockets.” Hyssyth slants a wry look at Lance. “If you run into Tyrka, please kick him in the reproductive parts for me. Preferably several times. He’s an ass personally as well as politically.”

Lance sits back with an explosive breath to digest all of this. Logically, he’d known that his disappearing act would have meant his fellow paladins couldn’t form Voltron, but he hadn’t quite realized just how far the ripples reached. Obviously it mattered whether or not Voltron could hold back whatever new superweapon Zarkon had developed; but it also mattered how Voltron’s image, plastered across the cosmos, affected tiny lives like those of individual Nomoi citizens. Lance glances back down at his tattoo, running his fingers across the slightly raised lines, before clenching his fist in helpless rage. It’s rage directed at the universe — why does his failure have to matter _so much_? It’s rage directed at the greedy courtiers Hyssyth had described. It’s even a smaller rage directed at himself — why had he leapt at Keith all those months ago, taking the shot meant for the Red Paladin? If he hadn’t — no. He would never regret saving Keith’s life; but perhaps he regretted the consequences of that decision. The scar from the mercenary’s blaster runs silvery and puckered still across his lower left ribcage, stretching unpleasantly when he breathes as if to remind him of how this had all begun. 

Deep in thought, Lance misses the slowing of the hovercarriage until it haltes entirely. Hyssyth leans forward, putting a hand on the very wrist at which Lance had been gazing sightlessly.

“Alejo,” she says softly. “We’re here. Follow me, and _trust me_. This is a court of lies, and you will hear me say some upsetting things. I’m sorry in advance.” Before he can respond, she briskly takes his coat and weapons and somehow — his head hurts watching — stuffs them into the pocket of her own jacket. She gazes at him critically for a moment before sighing, “It will have to do.”

 

 

The Palace of Wisdom’s Jewel, or the Jewel Palace as it’s more commonly called according to Hyssyth, is a massive edifice of dark green and pearly white marble, intricate geometric latticework, and secretive corners. Hyssyth moves through the palace with confidence, heels clicking against the pristine floor; Lance follows with nervous glances down the endless dim corridors. The silence is near-oppressive, and it’s only when they reach a pair of massive double doors of teak-like wood that they encounter their first people. The guards at the door are impassive, spear-bearing native Nomoi: lavender-skinned, tall beings with close-cropped white hair, colorless eyes, and intricate darker purple facial markings. The guard on the right remains expressionless as Hyssyth and Lance approach, but the guard on the right gives a start when she sees Hyssyth.

“Lady Hyssyth, what in all the islands are you doing here? You know your mother has banned you—”

_Banned?_ Lance swivels to stare at his companion, who just stares coldly back at the guard. “My mother may have barred me from the halls of my childhood,” Hyssyth says, sharp teeth suddenly on full, gleaming display, “but I’m sure she’ll want to see the slave I’ve brought her, fresh from the Emperor himself.” 

Lance chokes on his breath. _You will hear me say some upsetting things,_ she’d said.

“Slave?” the guard says, glancing at Lance skeptically. “Why is he not restrained?” 

Hyssyth puts a hand on his shoulder, a far less friendly echo of her earlier grip. Lance can feel her talons much more acutely through the thin skin of his jumpsuit; it doesn’t do wonders for his already rabbiting pulse. “Does it look like he’s unrestrained?” she says icily.

The other guard steps closer to peer more closely at Lance. “What’s so important about this one?” he asks, and sniffs. _Sniffs._

Hyssyth’s smile had unnerved him the first time he’d met her; that friendly grin has nothing on the triumphant smirk she turns on the guard now. “Meet Princess Allura’s little brother.” 

_What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Out of the frying pan, and into the fire. The Nomoi court is a nasty place when the Queens aren't there, and disaster strikes.


	7. Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about that ending; I know it was sloppy! I hope this update makes up for it!! Tumblr: princesscochlea.

Of all the things Hyssyth could have said, _that_ was perhaps one of the most unexpected. 

“He doesn’t _look_ like the Princess Allura,” the male guard says dubiously. “Aren’t Alteans supposed to be ethereally pretty, for one? And what about the eye-scales?”

Hyssyth scoffs airily. “And you’re the expert on Alteans now, Kemelin? It’s called sexual dimorphism. The females are wonderful; the males…well.”

Lance can’t help but feel mildly offended, as Kemelin subsides with a grumble and exchanges glances with his fellow guard before stepping aside hesitantly. “Fine, you can go in, I guess.”

“Words that inspire confidence in my aunt’s guard,” Hyssyth says lightly as the great doors swing noiselessly inwards.

 

 

The Nomoi throne room would have been glorious to wander about any other time. It is high-ceilinged, with an almost honeycombed pattern to the gilded vaulting, and veins of some silvery-gold metal shoot through the white marble of the floor. The sunlight streams diffusely from translucent window-like membranes of stone, focused on the dais at the far end of the room. 

Hyssyth pushes Lance towards that dais now; its three richly carved wood thrones with their soft periwinkle cushions are empty, but an Atheri rises suddenly from her ramrod-backed perch on a simple stool to the right of the thrones at Lance and Hyssyth’s approach. 

“What are you doing here, Hyssyth?” the Atheri woman demands as the doors swing shut. She’s a darker green than Hyssyth, with none of Hyssyth’s warmth in her pale blue eyes and, if possible, even more intimidating cheekbones. But she bears a clear resemblance, and Lance begins to understand why Hyssyth is so familiar with the workings of Nomoi high society. 

“Hello, Mother,” Hyssyth says. “Did you miss me?”

“Not particularly,” says Hyssyth’s mother, approaching warily with her rich ivory robes held daintily in those murderous talon-tips. “Is there a reason you’ve interrupted Court, _dearest_?” 

“What, the court you wish you could be queen of?” Hyssyth retorts. “What a nice charade you’ve all got here. But where’s your crown, _Riarra_?” 

“You may refer to me as Your Grace, if you’re going to insist on acting like this,” Riarra says stiffly. “And I am simply safeguarding the Tripartite Throne for the queens until Her Majesty is feeling better.”

“Safeguarding the throne includes looking the other way as the Galra vultures descend upon us and take our children?” 

Lance swallows, glancing around as Riarra says something as sharp as her fangs in reply. He certainly doesn’t see much sympathy from the courtiers seated around him. At best, he can see curiosity on some of their facess, but the Imperialist corruption must run deep indeed. Most of them seem more emotional about whether their finger-foods are within reach or not.

Lance is marveling sickly at how fast things can change when Hyssyth’s voice finally filters through to him: “absolutely must hand-deliver him to the Queens, _Your Grace_.” 

Lance does his best to look like someone who ought to be hand-delivered to the Queens, but Riarra continues to eye him skeptically. “Doesn’t look like much, does he?” 

“No,” Hyssyth agrees, “but if you let me get him to the Queens, I can guarantee that they’ll reward you. Isn’t Immori supposed to have her offspring any day now? You could be their regent — and if something were oh-so-convieniently to happen to the Queens during the invasion I know you all have up your sleeve, you could just—” Hyssyth snaps with her free hand, and Riarra’s gaze follows the gesture hungrily. “You’d have both the blood-heir and the line of succession, as Queen Aredel’s sister.”

Lance sneaks a sideways look at Hyssyth and tries to imagine her sitting in this court, wearing fine robes like Riarra’s — and fails. She wears the wry waitress-spy’s skin so well that Lance can’t see her in any other. 

Riarra opens her mouth to speak; she seems to have defrosted enough to consider Hyssyth’s proposal. But whatever she’s about to say is interrupted by a distant boom, as if a giant has stomped his foot. Lance doesn’t identify it immediately, not until Riarra’s scales suddenly turn light green and her pupils contract in obvious fear. 

Hyssyth demands, “What have you done, Mother?” 

“They—they weren’t supposed to come _now_ ,” Riarra says, voice gone reedy with horror. “It was supposed to be next month, after— _Aredel isn’t dead yet_ , they’re ahead of schedule—”

Things happen very quickly from there. Hyssyth shouts something at Riarra about being a soulless, sororicidal bitch as the doors bang open suddenly and palace guards in shining armor pour in. There’s an awful lot of background clamor, and now that Lance can identify them, more explosions have begun to go off. They seem to be getting closer, he notes with not a little panic. Lance is hustled along by a flood of frightened courtiers trampling their frilly robes in their rush to get out, and before he knows it, he’s lost track of Hyssyth in the swelling mob. 

Lance is half-dragged out of the throne room by a spiderlike Orsethi, but then a stampeding feathery Permamor shoves the Orsethi aside, shunting Lance directly into someone else’s arms. By sheer luck, it turns out to be Hyssyth, and Lance hears her shout in his ear: “We need to get out of here, Alejo!”

“No shit!” Lance replies. “We need to find Tybbas; they’ve got my—” time to own it, he supposes,“—my kids!” 

Hyssyth suddenly swears. “Wait, before we go, we need to get the Queens; they’ll be in vigil for Aredel, and they probably don’t even know what’s happening.”

Lance can feel the drumbeat of battle-adrenaline in his veins already, and it’s screaming at him to run already, to take his new charges and run from this world just like they’d run from Eleriin. But he also can’t just leave the Queens to die. He remembers Aredel from her brighter days; she doesn’t deserve to die in her bed, too weak to even help her wives escape the Galra. 

“Okay,” Lance says, and is shocked at how calm his voice is. “What do we do?” 

Hyssyth locks eyes with him — hers are brimming with gratitude — before snapping into motion. “You have that information Tybbas gave you, right?” Lance nods, and she continues, “Go call Melforan. I’ll get the Queens, and we’ll all meet out where we pulled up.” 

When Lance doesn’t move, Hyssyth snaps, “What in suns’ name are you doing? Move!” 

Lance acts without thinking, just as he did all those months ago. He barrels into Hyssyth, taking her down to the floor in a smooth tackle that would have brought him praise on the sparring floor. The shot from the guard behind Hyssyth goes safely above their heads, and Hyssyth makes an inarticulate noise of fury as realization spreads across her face. She wriggles out from under Lance and reaches into her pocket, drawing a sleek, iridescent throwing knife. 

Before Lance really even registers it, the knife is already across the room and sunk deep in the guard’s throat. 

Hyssyth drags herself to her knees, and then to her feet, muttering all the way about idiots who couldn’t tell true enemies from false ones. She helps Lance up, then crosses the hall to retrieve her knife. “I owe you one,” she exhales as she reaches into her other pocket with her unbloodied hand and brings out Lance’s things. Then she tosses them at him in a clear dismissal before turning and jogging down the hall in a steady lope. 

 

Lance finds a corner safe from the ringing shots where he can also keep his eyes on an open doorway and punches in the number Tybbas had given him. It rings twice before being picked up. “Who is this?”the person on the other end demands flatly.

“My name’s Alejo; Tybbas Rheiska said to call you if there was trouble?” Lance offers.

“Oh, you’re Tybbas’ lost paladin. You’re in the palace, right?”

Lance nods, but quickly says, “Yes,” to make up for it. 

“Melforan is already on zhir way, things went belly-up here before it did uptown and we knew you’d need an extraction. Word of advice, Paladin? When you meet Melforan, duck.” The line clicks, and Lance stares at the com in his hand for a beat before slipping it back in his pocket and heading for the door.

 

Outside, the red-painted sunset is a jarringly beautiful backdrop to the horror streaked across the sky — Galra fighters tangle with those of the Nomoi Home Guard; larger Galra ships stipple the city below with heavy artillery. Smoke rises into the air, and Lance thinks fiercely: _this. This is why I have to get back to Voltron, so I can stop this._

For now, though, his eyes light on a group of figures pushing through one of the gates in a nearby garden wall. As they draw closer, he can make out Hyssyth at the head of the group, and he runs over just as the white-scaled Atheri woman already leaning against Hyssyth collapses completely.

Hyssyth bites out a soft curse, and her Nomoi and Telchar companions instantly rush to fuss over the unconscious Atheri. She must be Queen Aredel; the Nomoi woman with long intricately braided is obviously heavily pregnant, which makes her Queen Immori. That leaves the Telchar, a stout little woman who looks like living copper — Queen Lyxe. 

“Is it true?” Immori asks, turning her pale eyes on Lance as she clutches her wife’s hand. “You’re the Blue Paladin, escaped from slavery, come to save us all?”

“I—yes,” Lance says, trying for confident, which sounds wobbly to his own ears, but Immori smiles. “Thank you,” she says, and they all sit for a little while in the dying sunlight, catching their breath. 

Their little respite comes to an end when the garden gate slams open again to spit forth a disheveled and bleeding Riarra. She’s clutching a wound at her side, but her other hand holds a gun that is leveled, alarmingly steadily, at their group. No matter who she chooses to shoot, it won’t be pretty. 

Immori makes a low, pained noise from where she holds Lyxe’s and Aredel’s hands. “Riarra—”

“Duck!” comes a new voice, suddenly, and Lance follows the instruction before his brain can catch up. There is a single blaster shot, and ringing silence descends. After a few heartbeats, Lance gets back to his feet, his companions doing the same — Hyssyth lifting her aunt in a bridal carry — and they turn to assess their new ally. 

The ally in question turns out to be a Derron, a craggy humanoid with basalt-dark skin and intricate white glowing geometric lines in zhir skin. As zhi lowers their smoking gun, their deep-set white eyes flick over the five of them. 

“I’m Melforan Duzain, and you need to come with me,” zhi says briskly, re-holstering zhir weapon. “We’re to rendezvous with Tybbas and their family in King Eseveri’s square.”

 

Melforan leads them through streets that are no longer neat and clean, sidestepping fallen purple foliage and rubble with ease. Their party’s grim silence is broken occasionally by screams and explosions, but their only company, thankfully, is the occasional frightened face in a window. 

Just when the silence becomes unbearably oppressive, they come to what must have once been a lovely square with a broken stone fountain and a lone, wide-branched tree enhancing the mournful twilight. And under the shade of that tree stand a familiar pair of Loralians and their children. As Lance and the others approach, the pair of huddled Eleri children leaning against the trunk shoot to their feet.

“Alejo!” Nyalri cries, and without further ado she and Utyne launch themselves at Lance; he’s forced to drop the bag he’d been carrying for Immori to open his arms to them. 

Nyalri buries her nose in his shoulder as Utyne wraps themself, limpetlike, around Lance’s waist. “You were gone when we woke up, and we were worried you’d run away — and then the Galra came, looking for _you_!” she sniffles. “We had to hide in Tybbas’s cleaning closet, and it was horrible while those — those beasts — sniffed around.”

Tybbas draws close; Lance can see now that they’ve gone limp-tentacled with exhaustion, and their jumpsuit bears more than a little grime. “It must have been those thrice-damned Agrest,” they say grimly. “They seemed shifty; they must have recognized you from the wanted posters on some Imperial world and called the fleet down on us.” 

“I knew I didn’t like them,” Lance remarks as the children finally disengage. “So what’s the plan now?”

Melforan seems to take this as zhir opportunity to speak from where zhi seems to be performing first aid on Aredel. “All of the contacts I’d usually put to work getting you offworld will no doubt have gone to ground, and even if they hadn’t, I doubt they could get three queens and a paladin offworld silently. Everyone has a price, and theres really not much for the queens — no offense, your Majesties — in the way of disguise.”

Lyxe frowns. “The royal airfield isn’t far away; couldn’t we just, ah, appropriate a ship from there? After all,” she adds wryly, “is it really stealing if you’re the queen and it’s a Crown craft?” 

 

The route to the royal airfield leads them out of Kyppos proper; out of the city and away from the warzone, the jungle is hot and filled with the same nighttime sounds Lance remembers from his last visit to Nomos. 

The trek through the jungle would be almost pleasant, except for the deathly ill queen in Hyssyth’s arms and the inescapably heavy knowledge of the flames left behind them. 

Lance has taken to carrying a drowsy Utyne against his hip again, but Nyalri has fallen behind him to chatter with Tybbas’ and Axaris’ eldest child, Nami. 

As they set out, Nami had introduced themself as a student at the University of Kyppos studying — they had glanced shyly at the queens — political science. 

Watching Nami and Nyalri now, Lance can see that Nyalri may have found herself an idol as she pelts the Loralian with questions about all the things they’ve learned. 

Up at the front of the group, Lyxe and Melforan have their heads close together in anxious discussion, and behind Lance and Utyne Tybbas and Hyssyth are reassuring the queens.

Just as the cleared dirt road to the airfield finally comes into view, the last thing any of them expect is the ten-man Galra patrol that springs suddenly out of the darkness. 

As the first shots ring out, Axaris, the children, and the queens huddle behind a fallen tree, and Lance pities the poor Galra soldier at whom Hyssyth immediately leaps. Tybbas is small enough that they can easily duck and weave between bolts of blasterfire, and their return fire displays some seriously impressive marksmanship. And Melforan — Melforan is _fast_ , faster with zhir own pistols than almost any other species Lance has seen out here.

By the time Lance has entered the fray, fingers falling into an all-too-familiar rhythm on his triggers, the patrol is already down five members, some fallen to knives and some to blasterfire, some to both. But the five that are left are obviously left because they’re better than their dead comrades, and their group has lost the element of surprise. 

“Tybbas—on your left!” Lance shouts. It’s just in time for the Loralian to spin and surprise their attacker with a quick pair of shots.

“Thanks, behind you,” Tybbas returns as they duck to avoid the now-dead Galra’s wild fire. Lance feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the approaching Galra, and he blindly aims behind him and hears a satisfying shriek-thump. 

From there, battle blurs into dodge-aim-whirl-duck, and Lance finds himself relieved when the last Galra hits the blood-glossed, leafy jungle floor.

Melforan checks them all over briskly for injuries; thankfully, aside from some minor bruising across Tybbas’ face, everyone seems all right. 

They move on, leaving the blood-spattered stretch of road behind them.

 

After that, no one speaks, and they all keep their hands near their weapons, but no further patrols appear. Lyxe and Immori press their hands to the biometric hangar-lock, and they all file into the gloom silently. 

The ship that waits for them is all sleek silvery metal, made for screaming defiance at gravity and dancing in the stars. It’s clearly Nubian make, and Lance has to give them this: they sure know how to make beautiful, and fast, spacecraft. 

If sitting at the helm of the _Woodsend_ had felt good, settling into the pilot’s seat alongside Hyssyth is heavenly. As they go through pre-flight checks, he can almost feel the _Queens’ Honor_ purring eagerly under his fingers and itching to arrow into the sky in a shallow imitation of Blue.

Almost as soon as they lift into the air, the radio screeches with a hundred different panicked voices on all wavelengths — embattled Nomoi Home Guard pilots; fleeing private craft; pinned merchant craft caught in the crossfire.

It tears at Lance’s heart, but he’ll have to ignore all the myriad pleas for help if any of them are going to survive the day. Gritting his teeth — and ignoring the solemn oaths he’d taken as a Defender of the Universe — he reaches for the button to silence the screaming voices of Nomos. 

But his fingers freeze on their terrible trajectory when one reedy voice filters through all the babbling: “ _Look! It’s the Defenders of the Universe!”_

Slowly, almost dreading what he’s about to see, Lance lifts his gaze to where a ravaged, flaming Nomoi cruiser hanging low in atmosphere lights the night sky. The light of the guttering fires glints off the Red Lion’s armor as she bounds through the air, roaring a challenge at the gnatlike Galra fighters that dare stand in her path. She’s magnificent and furious and Lance feels his heart crack in two as he realizes what he has to do. The path to open sky lies clear before him; but deeper into the fray, past the wreckage of ships falling like dying stars and the smoke of burnt hope, lies the six other people to whom he _belongs_. 

Lance swallows, hands frozen on his yoke, for long minutes. But he looks at Hyssyth, and then back at the rest of the group in the cabin and their tired, resigned eyes, and closes his own. 

He will have to come home another day.

It is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, as he punches in the coordinates Hyssyth quietly feeds him through a blur of tears. 

The last thing he wonders before they jump into hyperspace is this: how much longer will he have to wait before he can see them again? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, for the next chapter, do y'all want a direct continuation of Lance's escapades in the present or do you want an interlude to see how Lance got kidnapped in the first place? If it makes any difference, I think I'd do it in Keith's point of view.


	8. Little Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....I'm so sorry this took so long, y'all. I got super busy, and then my brain and my creative impulse got eaten by the Batfamily for a while. (I'm coparenting the Robins with Bruce now, they're my children.) The Keith-POV prequel, "The Abduction of Lance McClain," will be up as a separate fic soon!  
>  There isn't a lot in this chapter, I guess, but I needed to post SOMETHING for you all. <3

Hyssyth, as it turns out, gave Lance the coordinates to the nearest resistance base world, several galaxies over from the conflagration engulfing Nomos. It’s a long jaunt, even with faster-than-light travel, and after two days Lance already jittery and chafing for sunlight and fresh air. He’s not unfamiliar with the vagaries of space travel, of course, but the air aboard the _Queen’s Honor_ is thick with grief and a sort of stretched anticipation. They are all of them homeless now, and Hyssyth has glumly admitted that she doesn’t have much of a plan after getting them all to a resistance base. She and Melforan may be the most involved with the resistance, but their involvement had been primarily tied to Nomos. Adrift from the world that had joined all of their paths together — from uneasily sleeping children to pacing queens — the future is clouded.

Lance, Hyssyth, and Melforan, the most qualified pilots aboard, take turns in shifts of six hours or so; every now and then, Lyxe, who turns out to have flown some as a young woman, chips in. 

Aredel regains consciousness during the third night, when the lights are low and eerie and Lance is fighting yawns. At Tybbas’ insistence, her wives have finally disappeared into the royal suite for a short respite from their worried vigil, leaving Lance as the only (barely) conscious person on board. 

That is, until Lance hears soft shuffling footsteps behind him and he turns to see the tall Atheri queen duck into the cockpit. She’s wrapped in one of the infirmary blankets, and though her snowy scales don’t show exhaustion the way human skin might, her ice-blue eyes — the same as Riarra’s — are bleary, and her coordination is clearly shot.

Lance gets to his feet and helps her settle into the other seat, and once she’s settled she sighs and studies him. “You are the Blue Paladin,” she says after a time. “And this is the _Queens’ Honor_. Tell me what has happened.” There’s the Aredel Lance remembers, the unhesitating, brisk White Lady of the Nomoi who had secured alliance with Voltron in another life. 

Lance fills her in on the situation, and her face remains still for most of it, but she inhales sharply and closes her eyes in evident agony when he explains Riarra’s plot. 

“I knew she wanted power more than anything else in the universe, but I — she was my sister. I did not think she would actually try to kill me,” Aredel says. “Goddess knows I should have been smarter, and certainly there were enough warnings, but in the end I looked at her and all I saw was my twin sister. I was weak, and it cost me my world.”

Lance fidgets with the edge of the tunic he’d lifted from the royal guards’ wardrobe; the queens’ livery is the closest thing he’s worn to a uniform since his abduction.“I’m not gonna deny that Riarra wasn’t a backstabbing bi—” Lance knows that’s not his brightest moment, as Aredel pins him with a stare, but he isn’t exactly proficient in statecraft — he never got the chance to finish the paladin diplomatic training, after all. 

He clears his throat and continues, “She was objectively terrible, okay, I’m just going to say that having known her for maybe an hour, but she was your sister. You should have been able to trust her, and honestly? I don’t think it’s your fault that everything with Nomos happened. Yeah, Riarra was plotting for months, and this might have still happened, but according to Tybbas, it came down to some Agrest that sold me out to the Galra.” 

Aredel continues to scrutinize him for a few uncomfortable moments, and just when Lance starts to seat a little, she suddenly smiles the same smile as her niece — seriously, what is it with Atheri and unsettlingly toothy smiles? — and says, “Your words may be unconventional, paladin, but thank you. If we ever return to Nomos—”

But Lance never gets to find out what will happen if they ever get back to Nomos, because the cockpit door slams open to reveal a harried Tybbas.

“Get to the infirmary. Immori’s—” Aredel shoots out of her seat, immediately winces, and shoulders past the dimunitive Loralian before they can even finish their sentence.

This leaves Lance and Tybbas, and Tybbas just looks at Lance tiredly for a beat before asking, “Do you have any medical experience? Specifically, with birth?” 

Lance’s experiences with babies are limited to babysitting his cousins’ children, and he tells them that, but Tybbas just propels him out of the cockpit. “I think Nomoi biology is closest to yours; I’m conscripting you anyway.”

 

And that’s how Lance finds himself adapting his own anxiety-related breathing exercises to help an alien queen give birth.

“That’s it, in through the nose and out through the mouth — you’re almost there,” Lance encourages Immori, and she manages a few uninterrupted breaths before letting out another howl. 

Tybbas wasn’t wrong; Nomoi seem to be at least vaguely mammalian in the sense that they give live birth —Atheri, Lance has been informed, lay eggs, and Telchar… sprout? He hadn’t quite understood Lyxe’s explanation. 

As Immori clenches her wives’ hands ever tighter and slowly pushes a new life into the world, Lance finds himself extra impressed with people who can give birth — this is _hardcore_. Not to mention the fact that she’s doing it all without the aid of serious painkillers — the _Queens’ Honor_ infirmary is nothing to scoff at, but it doesn’t exactly carry supplies for childbirth. 

At least Nomoi labor is a shorter ordeal than it is for humans; it’s been about four hours since Tybbas summoned Lance and Aredel, and Immori’s child now is on the verge of entering the world. 

Immori’s next cry is perhaps her loudest so far; her white hair slicked close to her temples and lavender skin flushed violet with exertion. Lyxe lets out a joyful noise as Lance spares a moment to wonder how the child’s birth will be marked — here in the limbo of hyperspace, they will be born somewhere between one star-streak and the next. 

Hyssyth is the one to catch her newborn cousin, talons held carefully back from the delicate skin. The infant is clearly pure Nomoi, skin a couple of shades darker than Immori’s and with a light white fuzz of hair. They immediately launch into a wail of complaint at the indignity of being born. 

Hyssyth chuckles as she carries her cousin to a nearby sink. “Demanding, this one,” she quips; now clean, the baby’s cries quiet down some. “What shall you call them?” 

The queens exchange looks, and then Immori murmurs, “Saka. Little lion, in our language.”

Now nestled in Immori’s arms, the newly named Saka blinks with large white eyes up at their family and Lance silently for a moment, almost consideringly, before promptly going to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I did a ridiculous amount of research on labor before giving up and going, "ehh, I can SFF-author BS my way through this, since the Nomoi are an alien species." My Google history for a little while looked rather alarming.  
> 2\. Plane medical kits generally have mild anesthetics and topical analgesics, but nothing that would remotely help with labor; that's what I based this on.  
> 3\. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but Atheri are modeled off of bush vipers, so of course they lay eggs. Telchar (that's a Tolkien reference; Telchar of Nogrod was the Dwarf that made, among other things, the Dragon-Helm of Dor-lómin and Narsil) form the way copper does: https://goo.gl/J533Bs.  
> 4\. "Saka" is "cat" in Malagasy, the national language of Madagascar. Keep an eye on Saka, that's a future hellraiser right there.  
> 5\. Nomoi use gender-neutral pronouns for children; at about the Nomos equivalent of fourteen, they'll start using a preferred set of pronouns.


	9. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is your reminder that this fic wildly ignores canon after season one! I'd just done too much worldbuilding and planning by the time Seasons 2-4 came out and jossed all my hard work. So beware: absolutely nothing about the origin of Voltron or the history of the Galra and the Alteans will follow canon.

Thirty-eight hours later, the _Queen’s Honor_ reaches Mahjur, a superterran desert world with three moons and expansive silvery rings. As they descend into atmosphere, Hyssyth tells Lance that Mahjur is generally left alone by the Empire because it’s one of the monastery-worlds of the powerful Order of the Infinite Gaze.

 

The _Queen’s Honor_ lands at the lip of a great crevasse, its rim populated by hardy red shrubs and thorny black trees hung with strange twinkling blue charms. After the dust settles, a pair approaches the gangway: a large globular Unan with spinous periwinkle skin and no eyes; and a shorter humanoid figure with an intricate latticework mask, garbed in head-to-toe bruise-purple robes. The Unan picks their way over the rocky soil on tube feet, which creates an odd gliding effect.

The former, who looks remarkably like an Earth sea urchin, chitters at them cheerily in greeting before saying, “Welcome to Solace, the forty-fifth Haven of the Order of the Infinite Gaze. I am Ahirri, _ostiarius_ of the Order, and this is Sister Thjazi.” Lance can’t quite figure out _how_ Ahirri is speaking, but before he can wrap his brain around it, Thjazi is bowing with black-gloved hands clasped under her chin. 

“The Order is not fond of the Galra interlopers,” the Gazer says, sibilant tones curling unnervingly through the dry air. “So long as you fight the Empire with your whole soul, the Sisters will give you shelter. But if you waver, I warn you that there are worse things than the Empire in this universe.” Lance shivers, but Thjazi adds briskly, “Come, we must get you to your General Nandi.” 

All right, then. Lance exchanges glances with the rest of his crew before following the strangest nun he’s ever met down a winding stair carved into the sheer cliffside. Back home, _las Damas de Blanco —_ former rebels, now a respected order of nuns — certainly never made Lance feel like his skin was two sizes too small. Sure, they were formidable — had to be, as carriers of a legacy of steel-spined women fighting during the early years of the twenty-first century — but their strength was buttressed by equally tenacious kindness and warmth.

 

Solace, the Order’s monastery, turns out to be a breathtaking collection of rock-cut buildings cascading down the cliff face, golden-domed and hushed with the echoes of divinity. As they round the bend of the canyon, Lance can see the distant sparkle of a river with clumps of trees at its banks. Lance’s company passes other Gazers on the stair; none speak, but Lance can feel the eyes behind those eerie masks on the back of his neck as they descend. 

The main entrance of Solace is a great pair of blue wood doors studded with constellation-like patterns of dark metal. A lone Gazer stands there in purple robes embroidered over in blood-red and a mask even more delicately wrought than Thjazi’s. 

Thjazi bows deeply, and Ahirri’s spines flicker into a configuration that somehow exudes respect. 

“Mother Ilenn, the newest Rebels,” Thjazi announces. “Nomoi agents Hyssyth, Melforan, and Tybbas; Their Majesties Immori, Lyxe, and Aredel of Nomos. And—”

Lance steps forward and bows the way Thjazi did. “Lance Arteaga-Mendez, Blue Paladin of Voltron.”

Of course, Ilenn’s mask gives nothing away, but Lance thinks that if she were human, her brow would be arched.

Her suprise, however, is fleeting; Ilenn placidly spreads her hands — white-gloved to Thjazi’s black — in a gesture of welcome. “You are indeed most welcome, Paladin Arteaga-Mendez; the Order is glad to see Voltron return to the universe. We share a rather intertwined history, after all.” 

At Lance’s intrigued expression, Ilenn adds, “I will have a sister take you to our librarium after your meeting with the General, that you may learn more. Come.”

The doors swing inwards on silent hinges; the cool darkness inside is a welcome relief from Mahjur’s brutal sunlight. A small Gazer in ash-gray appears as if summoned, and Ilenn instructs, “Novice Berecine, if you will take the children to our guest housing?”

Berecine bows perfunctorily before gesturing for Immori, with Saka in her arms, and the children to follow. Their footsteps fade into the gloom, and Lance and the rest are left to follow Ilenn down the winding hall. 

 

Ilenn leads them to a bustling war room, its corners clearly hewn long ago from the rock. The particular musty scent of caverns hangs over everything, incongruous with the high-tech computers chiming as technicians receive dispatches from every corner of the universe. 

As they approach a glowing tactical table, a Bevan, a tall being somewhat reminiscent of the minotaurs of Earth legend, rises to greet them. The Bevan has to be seven feet tall, not including the gracefully arcing, metal-tipped horns, and the insignia on his uniform indicate his rank — this, then, must be the Resistance’s General Nandi. 

Lance’s guess proves correct when the Bevan rumbles, “Welcome, welcome! And I hear congratulations are in order, Your Majesties.” Interestingly, Nandi’s ebullient words sound slightly Hindi-accented. 

The queens nod in weary acknowledgement before Melforan clears zhir throat and steps forward. 

“General Nandi, Captain Melforan Duzain of the Nomos Resistance reporting,” zhi says, and Nandi’s quartet of burning golden eyes turn to the Derron. 

His voice gentles as he says, “Captain Duzain, I am truly sorry for the tragedy on your world. Have you any family still there?”

Melforan shakes zhir head. “I was an orphan immigrant from Resoum; the Resistance is my family now.” Then they fall into the brisk words of an officer reporting to a superior as they tell the story of the escape from Nomos, and Lance tries not to shiver at the cold facts of loss, stated in that tone stripped of emotion.

When zhi finish, Nandi tugs thoughtfully at his silver nose ring. “So Nomos has fallen, but we have a lost paladin among us,” they muse, eyes flicking to Lance. “No doubt you want to return to your team, Paladin?” 

Lance nods. “With Nyalri and Utyne, if I can, sir.” 

“Hmm,” Nandi rumbles, and Lance fails to feel positive about his considering tone. 

“I understand the importance of family, and of sworn oaths,” the Bevan says, and Lance winces at the _but_ coming, “but the Galra think you are dead, and I am told Agent Rheiska thinks you’re a promising intelligence agent.” Lance darts a startled look at Tybbas before Nandi continues. “You may not know this, but Agent Rheiska is one of our best, and if they think you have potential, then that’s where we need you. I understand that I ask much, but I would ask you, young paladin, to come home another day, and lend your services to our intelligence corps. I believe you may be the one we need to win this war. You have seen the inside of the system; slaves to the Empire will trust you; and in time we will surprise the Galra with a remade Voltron.” 

Sometimes, with Voltron, Lance had felt the homesickness so acutely that he had almost left in the middle of the night. Away from the only other humans in space, he’s had a doubled sense of homesickness: for Earth, and for Voltron. Now, under Nandi’s expectant gaze, he thinks about stretching that ache for months, maybe years more. Some soft part of Lance recoils at it. But the part of him that’s learned that the universe is bigger and more terrifying and more desperate than he could have ever known — that part is already considering Nandi’s request. Voltron is only the knight that brings the army down; the Galra have wormed their way into the universe like roots into stone, and it will take much more than a sword and shield to destroy them. It will take the Resistance; and Lance can help with that.

Long moments later, mentally pleading forgiveness from his team and his family, Lance says, “All right.”

 

Hours later, after having been processed as a new agent, Lance flops on his blue-quilted bed and examines his new Resistance ID. It’s a little like a driver’s license, with a regrettable picture and much of his basic information, and Lance smooths his thumb over the metallic green letters that spell out _Agent Alejo Arteaga-Mendez, Clearance B, IntelCorps._

He doesn’t know how much time passes before there’s a knock on his door; Lance sits up and calls, “Come in!”

It’s a Gazer he’s never met before, in deep indigo robes with silver embroidery; her mask is simpler than Thjazi’s but more complex than Berecine’s. 

“I am Sister Karta,” she introduces herself; her voice is warmer and younger than either of the Gazers Lance has heard so far. “If you’ll follow me, Agent Arteaga-Mendez, I’m to take you to our librarium.” 

Lance nods and grabs for his discarded jacket. He’s found Solace chilly; warmth must be one of the benefits of the heavy robes and gloves the Gazers wear. As he follows Karta down the hall, she says, “I’m second assistant librarian here. Have you any experience with Gazers?” 

“No,” Lance tells her. “I’d never heard of the Order before, which is weird, since Ilenn said you have history with Voltron.” 

Karta nods. “We do; the Order of the Infinite Gaze began long ago on Altea with our first Mother, Kazefar. She was Queen Issida’s closest advisor — some say lover — and she was a great smith. Issida had a gift for soul-magic, and together they forged the first of the Altean living machines. Eventually, there came a time when Altea needed defenders, and the Queen, Kazefar, and three of their closest friends sacrificed themselves to create their greatest work yet: the lions of Voltron.” 

“So you’re telling me that there’s _people_ in our lions?” Lance thinks of all the times Blue has patiently refrained from judging him as he did _extremely dumb things_ — the incident with Nyma coming to mind — and feels like he wants to die. 

“Not all Altean living machines required whole souls, but for such works as your lions, yes. I believe the legends say Issida lives on in the Blue Lion and Kazefar in the Red.”

Great, so not just any person has been witness to Lance’s stunts, it’s been an ancient alien queen, but— “Wait, why wouldn’t the queen be in the Black Lion? Since, you know, she’s the leader and all.”

“Factually, by the time of Voltron, Issida had since abdicated to her sister Allura, but personally, I think the story that she and Kazefar wanted to be together and equal is more romantic.” 

“Allura, like—”

Lance gets the impression that Karta is smiling. “She is the distant descendant of that first Allura, yes. I believe your Allura’s full title, if Altea still stood, would have been Allura VII Tolemos, Queen of Altea and the Moons of Yael, Arbiter of Faros and Xelat.” 

Lance, of course, knows that Allura has lost more than he can ever understand, but with the weight ringing in her titles he can suddenly see the enormity of the kingdom she would have inherited, the blue-gemmed world of Altea with the fields of juniberries she’s described before. And he hadn’t even known about the extra titles. 

They walk in contemplative silence for a while as Lance digests everything Karta’s said. Eventually, Karta pauses before a great set of doors of black wood with gilt reliefs. Turning to Lance, she says somberly, with the air of recitation, “This is the librarium of Solace. Enter, seeking knowledge, but tread with care. The librarium, like truth, can be unkind. This place has been blessed by generations of Gazers, and now it gazes back.” 

She presses her gloved palms to the doors, and they swing inwards noiselessly. As they step inside, a hallowed hush falls. The high ceiling vaults, carved deep into the bedrock, are decorated with intricate mosaics too fine for Lance to see at this distance but which hold the dim shine of faraway gold. A strange, undimming blue light fills orbs floating close to the ceiling, and nearer to ground level, similar orbs illuminate endless bookshelves. The endless bookshelves themselves, sturdy things constructed from something that looks eerily like bone, fan out into the gloom as far as Lance can see. For that matter, Lance can’t quite seem to grasp the shape or enormity of the room; it escapes his brain the way a forgotten word lies heavy on the tongue.

This alone is enough to set the hairs at Lance’s nape dancing; but suddenly, like a cold hand on his shoulder, he feels an evaluating presence brush his mind. He goes stock-still, his baser instincts responding to something older than humanity, and waits for that faintly amused, wise yet capricious presence to recede. When it finally does, Lance shakes his head to clear it and turns openmouthed to Karta. 

“What—”

“The librarium likes you,” Karta observes mildly. 

“I’m sorry, it likes me? _That did not feel like it liked me_!” yelps Lance.

“Oh, it did. If it did not, you would be little more than a mindless puppet right now,” Karta says casually, like that’s supposed to make Lance feel better.

(It most certainly does not.) 

As they continue into the librarium and Lance tries not to panic at the presence dogging his heels, Lance remembers a quote he’d learned from one of the Garrison’s ethics classes: _And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee._

Appropriate, for a creepy sentient library belonging to an order called the Gazers. 

Not for the first time, Lance wonders what the hell is under those impassive masks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh boy, this chapter has some exciting, extensive endnotes! BEHOLD:
> 
> 1\. Majhur is Arabic for "deserted." Thanks to Em (@jaisontodd on Tumblr) for naming this world.  
> 2\. "Superterran" comes from the Planetary Habitability Laboratory at Arecibo's proposed exoplanetary classification system: https://goo.gl/2LP2YN. In this case, Majhur is a little larger than twice the size of Earth.  
> 3\. Some information from Universe Today on planetary rings!: https://goo.gl/EvVD96  
> 4\. The charms hung from the tree are inspired by a famous nazar, or evil eye, tree in Cappadocia, Turkey: https://goo.gl/aaHWDy  
> 5\. The Haven of the Order of the Infinite Gaze on Majhur is inspired by my own visit to the Mar Saba Monastery in the West Bank last year.  
> 6\. "Uni" is the Japanese word for sea urchin; as you could probably tell, Ahirri is strongly based on these wonderful little echinoderms. I think one of the coolest things I've ever seen in my life is a sea urchin in my hand, wiggling all those hundreds of feet. Sea urchins have no eyes (https://goo.gl/xzSe84) but their mouths are called Aristotle's lanterns and they are LOUD chewers (https://goo.gl/Y6Sidv).  
> 7\. The Order's masks are inspired by Melissa Ng's Dreamer masks.  
> 8\. Ostiarius is the Latin word for doorkeeper, a role that later passed into the Catholic Church as the lowest of the Holy Orders.  
> 9\. Thjazi's name comes from the Norse mythological figure Þjazi, pronounced Th-yazi. (I love thorns, Þs, so much.)  
> 10\. Nandi is the bull mount of the Hindu god Shiva (thanks to @sanguinator for the Actual Hindu Advice).  
> 11\. Las Damas de Blanco, or the Ladies in White, is a group of Catholic rebels in Cuba that first appeared in 2003. (The Castro regime and the Catholic church have butted heads frequently as Cuban Catholics fight the Castro abuses of freedoms.) I figure that by Lance's time, at least a century or two later, Las Damas de Blanco have been memorialized as the heroes they are.  
> 12\. Arteaga-Mendez is an actual Cuban name from Matanzas Province, which is where Varadero, Lance's canon hometown, is from.  
> 13\. Points to anyone who gets the two references in Allura's full title.  
> 14\. Sister Karta's name comes, with permission, from @coyacoonadillo's Mandalorian character, Karta Kotra.  
> 15\. Come on, I can't have an order of creepy nuns called the Gazers and NOT make a Nietzsche joke.


End file.
